Tuesday, February 06, 2007

The Prophet and His Passing

From up here that long oblong driftwood log is a mouth on a parchment face. The sea has stirred thousands upon thousands of sandstone coloured grains of sand into the shape of eyes and left an untidy muddle of seaweed hair.

I think I hear, no, I hear. The rhythm of the waves has become a voice. Adagio.

“I want to tell you something.”

The poetry that follows is wondrous, strong, soft. It is the thing you always knew but never understood. It is the thing that soothes you and breaks you. I feel great joy and great pain as a single emotion.

The voice is inside me cleaning me, making me whole, giving me hope. I feel my preconceptions disappear and my defences reduced to rubble.

But then.

The voice, that beautiful voice, becomes suddenly harsh. “The tide is coming towards me. I can not take this pain.”

As the tide pulls away the edges of the face the mouth opens to drink and to be drowned by the water.

I am left thinking “Surely your own wisdom could have helped you?”

There is no answer to my silent question.
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