From a Relic

If we had been an ancient thing,
I expect we could have looked back,
been beautiful in our retrospective way of thinking.
Antiquated, made into sepia.
Appreciated from a long way off,
something so uncomplicated,
a place to be yearned for,
when you learn to miss what you never had.
Good old days.
Our age would have been struck in bronze,
hammered out in the way we knew.
A love letter to anthropology.
"We were here, and we were just like you."

If we had been an ancient thing,
a grainy image burned on paper
by light that has long since died,
pressed like leaves between the pages of a book,
we would be relics, permanent.
Gracing the walls of our generation,
first laid into soft graves,
now made hard by the treads of the younger.
Good old days.
Our faces would have made people look twice,
a postcard to our greatest grandchildren.
"We were here, and we were just like you."

If we had been an ancient thing,
I know we would be so curious
of the child and their childhood,
the first steps into the world, kicked over
by the inevitability of ageing.
Appreciated from a long way off,
something so uncomplicated,
a place untouched by knowing.
Good old days.
When we knew the world worked one way,
but never the other.
Our games and rhymes are told by you now.
"We were here, and we were just like you."

If we had been some ancient thing,
I think we would have thought longer,
much longer about how it would all fall away.
Antiquated, made into sepia.
Our statues tarnished by the filth we could not know,
our buildings broken by wars we did not see.
We became a place to be yearned for,
a gentle past without these complications.
Good old days.
Leaving our world, our spaces,
and falling into our own plots of earth,
then falling further,
into the real innocence, the place of no connection,
leaving to you, only our remains,
to do with what you will;
our present lives
to become your impermanent past.
"We were here, and we were just like you."

Welcome to the Waiting

Welcome to the waiting
time,
in-between and around action.
Welcome to what if, I don't know
can't answer that right now.
Welcome to the fork in the road
choose.
Welcome to the make-your-own-story
where it burns up if you don't
flip to page 73
Welcome to grabbing,
going forward and not running
saying goodbye when you know that it is right.
Welcome to frost,
after waiting, more waiting.
Waiting is the event.
Fill up the time.
Bring a book
(or write one) -
spend it thinking
laughing
meeting
falling, falling in love (maybe)
falling out, too.
to buying dresses
and holding hands
and vigils
and going home.
And then it comes!
Action, movement, propulsion,
which makes you crave the waiting
which makes you want to be idly busy
and not wringing out
over one thing
going one toe at a time
or headfirst
into the next part of your life
the next job
family
friend
love
whatever it is
and seeing where it will go
(if, actually, if it will go)
and keep on the same way
eventually forgetting the frustration
- now and then -
of waiting, wringing, deciding
and just living.

Driftwood

To be in the softness of it,
this is something I do not look for.
Losing myself in the falling grace
is not something I plan for.
I don't even hope for it.

Lost, gone, far away,
breaking on the brink of brine
Being better, alone
Leaving it to be simple
Learning the luxury of solitude,
and then breaking the fast
by seeing the soft gaze of another,
only for you?
No, I do not seek to quiet that desire
to be caressed in their thoughts.

The water will not always
be warm, or still.
The salt hurts as much as it heals, sometimes.
The water forgets if you are who you are
or driftwood, flotsam.
It doesn't toss you any differently.

But soon, after your bath,
your sharp edges smooth,
you will be mistaken at a glance for a stone,
and surprise! Your discoverer will see how light you are.
Rounded, perfect, belonging to no one.
Only retaining a ghost of the place you came from.
that forgotten tree.

You, beautiful piece,
little and perfect
have never known what it is to truly navigate
You are pulled by magic. A force
and, dearest, we both know
you don't understand it.

You are shaped in the form of your own
loveliness,
I watch you, and wonder where you've been
And if we would have met,
no matter what.

Perfect piece.
A saviour of the earth and sky
and born again of the sea,
I marvel at your grace.

August 18th, Sombrio
Morning: an ode of beauty, I am surrounded