Sacred Cycles

Can I speak to something in you?

Can I implicate the March wind rippling across the mill pond

Or the howling tides of rain that criss-cross in sheets as I go about my day

Down lanes of leaves

The gales of rain

The silken sheets

Dare I dream of commanding the weather for such an audacious out-of-time endeavour

Of amassing the sensory stack of its multitude of energies and requesting that when they reach you, you direct them inward

That you might intuit a lesson all language failed ever to teach?

A dialogue that never yet left our timid articulate tongues

We stand in bodies that breathe the seasons of earth like a fragile China vase

Leaning into one another

On the mercy of one another

The glory of old grace

But like dancers lost in music don’t tell me we don’t know

We are more completely ourselves when we let go

Our relentless quest for control delivers waxwork illusions of superman chic

Up higher than the House of Atrius our pride towers

Wedded to ego

The only animal species whose powers harry and hound the sacred cycles

Of majesty that brought us here

That delivered us

Tender as the midlife midwife delivers to thrusts and shivers the new-born child

The lamb of her seasonal, wild expanse

What chance

That we are here at all!

Looking out at the world for some prize

The glistening trove

That goal!

Being it while seeking it from without

How could we know that where to end is where to begin is within?

By knowing that the seasons of our own flaking, healing, wrinkling, bleeding, breathing skin

Are the same seasons we see in the skies of winter, autumn, summer and spring?

Among us, deep in our midst and mildly mocking

Like a Cold War novel with a cheap spy twist is a mole

Insidious antagonist

Spouse with all the nous

Tucked up tight in bed. Your bed.

Like lions in a den

Think on it

To whom is the ego wed?

That bottomless hole - the quest for control doth smash to smithereens

Without rhyme or reason

The delicate rhythm of season

Doth mash our withered dreams in time and treason

We are corrupted

She is interrupted

She is gone

Porcelain vase in pieces

I hold my nose, put my head down and run

To the hills for my life

For I can’t stand the stench of the faeces emanating from

The slag heaps of our progressive output

Forged in the steely heat of our fear and with greed as our knife what have we done?

And we call it growth

What are we doing?

Chill out, Gary, it’s just fine art

The Waste Land. My Bed. The Road To Wigan Pier.

Eliot. Emin. Orwell

Ah, well

Chin up, eyes down, crack on

Nowt to see here

gK

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