Dimming light comes again, too soon.
Spinning year, “no blame” I Ching says.
Remember this? Recalling is all too apposite
in these days of insanity and chaos.
Cleanse your own heart and run jauntily through
crystal waters in sharded rays of high noon….
White calling birds gliding overhead;
exquisite feather dropping into my outstretched hand.
Cascading leaves dancing
with Autumn’s cooling breeze.
A brown bird forages under
an old, weathered bench.
Rain make all colours change,
in skies and on fields while
young, bright, hopeful things
pedal hard down Cambridge streets,
late for lectures……
black gowns fly past
like an exodus of Blackbirds
in the wet morning’s light.
The Work of Hands
Staring down at my creased hands,
I see a journey with tales embeded in every fold.
Mothers hands were worn and tired
reast on her knees on her apron.
I would notice them when she was sewing,
mending my clothes, darning a sock
or stitching on a button which hung by a single thread;
I felt safe when they were busily employed,
her rough, sore, sad hands.
Here I am with mine, ageingly flabby,
now for the first time, with long, manicured nails.
At sixty one I feel just a little bit more like a woman.
I wonder what mum’s hands would have looked like,
manicured and cared for. I wish I had known.
I See the Moon, the Moon Sees Me.
High winds tore down trees,
whacked the streetlamp to the ground
like a giant with a sythe in his fists.
The bare view gave more light
like a gap had opened into the universe.
So tonight this moon is full
and sees me looking at her
while she looks at me.
It’s because the gales blew away
the walls round my hermit’s heart that
I see you up there moon…
I see you well tonight.
Deep aching void
stands like a cave
in her warm, round chest.
Dripping of sorrow,
drop by drop
forming a lake of tears
enough to deeply drown
a vulnerable kitten.
She thought she
had found her Love
though, over time
she grew to find herself….
hidden by all the men
she’d ever known,
beginning with her father…….
Where she needed to go
was not where she had been.
Individuating is painful.
It is a rebirth;
a birthing of our true selves.
She knew this.