(For you, Anam Cara)
I.
Strands of sunlight streaming through the windows of my room, illuminating long shadowed corners.
A hot mug of strong ceylon, mildly sweet and milked, thick like coffee, a draught from the well of life.
Ancient music filtered through speakers, reminding of what was and shall be.
Wisps of incense rising through the light, filling my mind with scents of elsewhere.
A kind cat companion playing just outside my door amongst the tentative sprouts of my garden, life dancing in life.
A lingering chill, clear air breathing like a contented sigh from the quiet mountains.
The presence of gods, whispering patiently, awaiting their revelation.
And an anticipation which challenges all my words:
I do not know enough languages to paint for you the serene thrill of an impending presence, a long-awaited visit, a kind haunting of a living soul soon to manifest. All poetry fails, all prose is just prattle.
Not long.
I am happy.
I am alive.
A hot mug of strong ceylon, mildly sweet and milked, thick like coffee, a draught from the well of life.
Ancient music filtered through speakers, reminding of what was and shall be.
Wisps of incense rising through the light, filling my mind with scents of elsewhere.
A kind cat companion playing just outside my door amongst the tentative sprouts of my garden, life dancing in life.
A lingering chill, clear air breathing like a contented sigh from the quiet mountains.
The presence of gods, whispering patiently, awaiting their revelation.
And an anticipation which challenges all my words:
I do not know enough languages to paint for you the serene thrill of an impending presence, a long-awaited visit, a kind haunting of a living soul soon to manifest. All poetry fails, all prose is just prattle.
Not long.
I am happy.
I am alive.
II.
I have always been very proud of my ability to
dream fantastic worlds, to envision things more brilliantly illuminated
than any light I've seen. Yet sometimes, all dreams prove pale.
Ancient wells overflow in torrents of rain from unseen worlds, and I didn't realise how dry this world had been. Forests overtake vast wastes, mirthful fecundity when I'd been thinking only of a little shade. Overwhelming symphonies scream from the stars when I'd thought only of some simple tune.
I shake my head and smile at how little I'd dared, while Brigid tosses more wood upon the hearth, and laughs.
Ancient wells overflow in torrents of rain from unseen worlds, and I didn't realise how dry this world had been. Forests overtake vast wastes, mirthful fecundity when I'd been thinking only of a little shade. Overwhelming symphonies scream from the stars when I'd thought only of some simple tune.
I shake my head and smile at how little I'd dared, while Brigid tosses more wood upon the hearth, and laughs.
III.
What is love then, without sorrow? What rain
could give more life to the soil of the soul than the tears of parting?
From which springs could flow such waters to cleanse the heart, to make
it ready for the next embrace?
It is spring. Winter has kept safe all which needed to sleep, has culled from the ground all which needed to die. Now comes to us the awakening, mists falling upon us from the worlds above, from which our lives are seen outside of the time we know.
I have known such joy because of its shadow.
I have known the winter which precedes this spring.
It is as it must be, world without end.
I am all gratitude.
I am all love.
It is spring. Winter has kept safe all which needed to sleep, has culled from the ground all which needed to die. Now comes to us the awakening, mists falling upon us from the worlds above, from which our lives are seen outside of the time we know.
I have known such joy because of its shadow.
I have known the winter which precedes this spring.
It is as it must be, world without end.
I am all gratitude.
I am all love.
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