I didn’t see it coming. I stepped on the branch which broke under my feet and then, found myself, flying – or was it hurtling? – through time and space. Even though it was several life times ago, I can still remember the sensation that I could not really believe it was happening to me, until that thump on the ground. All the air in me pushed out: all very dramatically. Like sucked out. Completely winded. And mother just sat there, scolding me for being a foolish boy.
The endless white and blue. That’s how I remember it. Palm trees, giraffes in the silence, hardly a muscle of their bark moved. We were on the edge of the planet: a beach at the end of the world. Waves slept in the afternoon heat. No seahorses here. The threat lay elsewhere. The parents snoozed in the drizzle of the noon sun. Skydiving, sun-heavy snores. The two of us had wandered away, unmoored from the holiday cottage. We were kidnapped by the idea of the distance. Thrilled by a different circumference, un-coralled. The endless white and blue merged into a sameness. Palm trees all looked the same. Viewed from the height of a three year old, there were no distinguishing characteristics. No birthmarks. All trunks looking like the other trunk. There were all the possibilities to explore other galaxies at the end of the ocean. She kept it a secret that we were lost: tiny specks from sightless satellites. We were driftwood on the beach. And, out of the blue, angels just happened to be in the neighbourhood: they were flying passed on their way to rescue others. They guided us back, celestial navigators to the cottage as the unknowing parents slept off the Mombasa summer sizzle.
© 2020 Copyright Rick Frame
Daffodils bend in the gale, looking quite indignant. Their usual graceful yellow leaning, bent out of hue, forced to look south in this raging wind. Incessant says it all. Never letting up. Howling and whistling. Dogs of wind, unleashed. The grey skydive falls to the earth, ditches of water, seemingly unsettled forever, waiting for the blood red sky in the east. The mind integrates with the body, filling with breath, sitting upright, looking out across the tree-lined sky, quite removed from all the bluster.
Sky fall, the mouth of the evening sun. Dotted, painted birds on the blue-grey, in winged expressions of movement. The green earth quenches the earlier drizzle. There is no red in the sky tonight.
The distance crossed brings me to only one place. I think love saves us. It draws us out and pulls us near. It speaks to us across time and space. It is there in our need. The wise consideration, aware of our suffering - like when the poet says we do not have to walk on our knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. It is in the place of giving that we receive. It calls us down from high rise ledges; it talks us out of roads we want to take. It walks us home when our serotonin is hung out to dry. It is in place at the window, where a butterfly visits. Love warms us up, sunning us, as we tube on rivers. It is the laughter in the love. It saves us from ourselves, quickly bloated on thinking we are always right. It is the smile in the love in the growing morning light. The familiar voice on the phone is the homecoming.
It came to me on the wing of a poet’s words. I didn’t know how to be sixteen.
No one had taught me, he said.
You just make your way, don’t you? You carve it out as best you can and cross fingers you make it or maybe you don’t need to. You just go through it blind, like when you were pushed through the birth canal. Helpless the other end. Cradled and fed, your mother’s eyes up close,
love getting you through.
Today I am fraught, wind-blown, the smudged sky the colour of smoke. The sun pokes through, the bird bath splashes, the fox prowls. The owl’s visit, a haunting dream away. The demagogue rolls into sight, ruffled chic but cardboard cut out really, the smirk all rolled into a bored laziness of lies. Fear drools on the lips. The hostage on hand-held camera, shifty, careless, talking big and acting small.