Refreshed or flinching into the mid-afternoon rain this is the choice of right now. Hunched while waiting I am reminded to stand upright, to remove my misting glasses, my damp leather shoes, open my chest and breathe into this ponderous dank odour, these re-infused leaves, these sweet perfumes. Toes rehydrating within the green and the softening transformation of sun drenched cracks. Wetness is earthed and electric.
As rain jumps upwards from this steaming manmade lake of Tetley tea, as my shirt darkens to mimic the flag stones, wooden benches silently sponge and seagulls swirl upon speeding wafts of invisible uppermost, weathering most, while at my side black shining ferns offer brushes of jazz percussion as they wrestle the drops to a smooth flow towards softer drips of reformation with the soil below. Children laugh, as I imagine their fights and falls into the sporadic backdrop of insistent sirens and the sedate melancholia of woodpigeon ponderings upon an a spindle of branch within this tree lined city centre refuge.
And now, I smile as beyond this rain, within and through this misting walkway a familiar if sunken torso appears. I replace my heal within my shoe. First the left, and then tottering slightly the right.
‘You ok?’ he asks
‘Yes great, you?’
And so to warmth of the hermetically sealed room and to my next jumper wearing, rain denying client. And so to the dance, the anticipatory anxiety relaxed by recounting of moments passed, relationship restored upon souls rehydrated within the connection of another 50 minute hour.
On this day and month in 1927 Gandhi wrote:
‘in spite of our knowledge of the danger and of our precarious existence, our indifference to the source of all life is excelled only by our amazing arrogance.’
And we have progressed how far?
O h h
deep rooted kiss
gift me Your mist
of body and brain.
M m m
yes yes stilled i long for such and such a
feathering breath for
Prescience to soothe
this slightness of mine
enlightening tight fists
un-pounding pale hearts
to soften free beats vibrating in Time.
St Therese to chaplain Piere Belliere, in 1897,
a few months before her death at age 24:
I am not dying, I am entering into life.
Wakefulness again begun.
Bleeding free upon glimpsed shards of Luminous trust
that mysteriousness between this and this
sensational suffering mind.
quietly wake to still
this and this constantly re-fining will
re-fuel oneself to wait upon
that still small Voice
that Glittering Jewel
that active, in-active othering choice
to re-ignite in blessed hoped for souls renewal
by sinking-in ankle deep
that Ground grown moist
from leakages of wonton wounds and size nine feet
to stretch those tiny toes deeply deep
into that oozing boiling balm
that heated hopeful weight full ness
immersions that convert alarm to dozing daze and waits to be
replenished and be-calmed in fertile fires and shining mists
of Love and Grace said to exist beyond this and this
pre-occupied pre-possessed never ended re-positioning of grasp and cling to
flesh and bone and time and test.
May I live so:
‘if on my dust a tuft of grass were to grow, every blade would tremble with my devotion for thee.’ (from Invocations by Ansari of Herat)
Come towards to hush this
this mind of ‘my’
ship of listing skin
contained husk of
lack and lust for
being seen as different and
sentient addictive flaws
deep within this sentimental hold, these
envious skeins, these half-
digested and indulged
infatuations of the
sores that pray to be
left alone to
mindscapes over grown, to
freshly pull at scaffoldings of
iron will of ego intent can only glimpse
of such and such discontent, for
have heard but seldom feel
the real and awesome unsaid
green leaves anew
to sway with ease
while anchored true to
the sacrificial flesh of