Like water drums

Please bear with me. It’s not been easy. You see the darkness was, well – how can I say – very dark. It was not my old friend – I’ve come to talk to you again – not in Paul Simon’s voice – although it hung around, keeping me company, hooded and brooding. Talking to me – and I could not shut my ears. It’s difficult to describe but – the best way, I think, is to say – there was no light. I only know this now because of the lightness of the breath that has returned and the bloodstream now flows – yes, that’s it – almost unnoticed. Oh, I nearly forgot. I knew I was alive because I could hear my heart in my ears. Loud, monotonous blood moving, pumping like water drums. Hanging around me, talking, reminding me of the darkness.

Hello again

It is in my skin and bone. This joyful breathing dawn.

The sunlight on a June morning with colours of bees and honey. The morning glory of birdsong, sill and open window, the half-awake stirring. Whispered dreams ghost-shimmer.

A new day lightly lands through the big-eyed playfulness of a breeze, helloing again another day.

Signing hope

On the train to London this morning,
I was caught by the thought of
one day
never seeing you again.
I did not think I was being morbid but, rather,
deeply aware of how
this life is flimsy and so temporary.
The feeling has wrapped me all day and it is is
only tonight that I am trying to make sense of this
momentary, fleeting emotion of what will,
one day,
actually happen.
I wondered if it is because I think of Steve who,
without any warning,
left us
and is the undercurrent
of the tenuous flimsiness of our incarnation.
This life and flesh, breath and heartbeat,
signing hope.
On the train to London this morning,
I was caught by the thought of