(Reworked from an earlier post around 2015)
Curtains still drawn.
Lamp light glow on the oak refectory table.
Colours fading on the blue and gold tray
with the image of Van Gogh’s
Almond Tree Blosom, diminishing.
My turquoise mug with the same timeless
design placed alongside the cafetière of
freshly brewed coffee.
Books on shelves, favourite things nearby,
objects of stillness with no question of
why or where, simply rooted where I place them.
What would they be if I weren’t here to
love them even more in this almost light,
shared with the first bird calling the morning
to begin again.
Step outside the garden door,
fill your eyes with morning light,
your whole body with dawn fresh breath.
Sink your bare feet into the green cushion
of dewy wet grass,
your toes tingling with surprise.
In the heart of everything before you,
You are in the presence of The Sacred.
a single gull on the water,
Continue reading “As If It Belongs To him”
Bare morning light.
Iron smooth water.
a fish breaks the surface.
Traffic Lights are red
The radio broadcasts jingles
that could get into your head.
Across the way,
two horses face each other.
as still as a day with no wind.
The silence of early morning light
with winged horses in flight,
lasso my willing soul.
went the moon,
went the darkest
Easter I have
This morning, I give thanks,
for your breath,
for your heart,
with the dawn.
Kookaburra’s start the morning chorus, accompanied by the dove, bringing echoes of another age when the world was still young. The song is haunting. Michael says birdsong heals the world. He believes that birds sing every morning to redress the balance inflicted on nature by the wrong-doing of mankind. It’s a comforting thought. I believe he is right.
It’s still raining. Rain-forest trees drip onto broad leaves of banana plants, into muddied earth, to find again the narrow river that will carry the song in it’s gurgling. Above my bed, a huge fly slaps frantically against the ceiling, finally settling into the corner just above my head. Watching the now motionless intruder, I’m convinced it’s up to no good, planning a dive-bomb attack the moment I look away.
From the other room, a suffocating smokers cough. A spoon rattles in a glass, the medicinal drink is mixed, swallowed with a mixture of hope & distrust. He lights a cigarette and heads outside to taste the morning. The smell of tobacco seeps into my room, but I wait for a few considered moments before slipping on my dressing gown and slippers to join him on the wooden deck.
He is comfortably seated on the cushioned bench, smiling with the same happiness that I feel. I kiss his cheek, and together we listen to the rising echo of the waking rain-forest. The ethereal blossom of the Chinese silk tree, pretty in pink, catches me in surprised awareness. I’m not sure who is looking at who. Michael says nature is curious, watching and listening, just like us. He isn’t frightened of dying, he has a profound sense of excitement at realising the next step in the great adventure of his life. The basic survival instinct is manifested in his anger at corrupt governments, at wrong management of natural resources, and sadness, that so many people are blind or indifferent to the escalating deterioration of our planet, but his anger doesn’t last long, and there is no time for sadness.
Frogs call to each other. Birdsong reaches a crescendo. The narrow river below rushes past with purpose. Immersed in the oneness of all things, enraptured, we listen.