Monday, 21 April 2014

Mist Soaked Memory

These, the mountains I see
Are not near hills and peaks,
But the Eastern Mountains.
A mist sodden image I have
Dredged from distant layers,
Cellular memory, even.


When pain wracked
And digestion
Churning in tempest,
Nothing other exists
Yet the patience to be stronger –
A distant river penetrates the trees.


The cry of the curlew
Arching through the hills -
Chasing our steps up the valley.


Now the city a refuge
Somewhere to hole up,
Let flesh mend and mind settle.
Water in the glass untouched.


And you,
waiting
To come into this world,
Any day now they say –
Waiting
To take your very first breath.







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