Author: Wisdomofrhiannon

You have been loaned this body and
It’s time on Earth.
There is no charge, instead a responsibility.
To make the world a better place,
To repay hate with kindness,
To extend compassion to each and every
Living being, and to preserve the precious world
That gives us each breath, each sunset and sunrise,
And the opportunity to repay our debt.

With the morn.
A weary woman rises.
It is the time
Of the lighting of the fires.
To cook. To feed.
To comfort and warm.
Soon the children will rise.
And take it all for granted.
Hers is a short life.
Illness and hard toil
Will age her.

Beneath her feet,
Her man toils.
His hands hue the coal.
That pays his wages.
And feeds the fires.
That are being lit.
A thousand feet
Above his head.
The sun he rarely sees.
Rises.

He rose at five.
Descended the shaft at six.
Rode the tram
To the coal face.
Into the dust.
The clammy warmth.
The danger.
His world has shrunk.
To the narrow beam of light.
From the torch on his helmet.
All else is darkness.
The dust fills his lungs.
Around him the earth groans.
The gas gathers
The coal filled trams.
Rattle on steel rails.
For eight hours
This is his world.
Exhausted.
Coal blackened.
He will emerge blinking.
Into the light.

Waiting for him.
A dinner.
A clean house.
A wife as exhausted as him.
A hot bath.
That cleans the skin.
But not the lungs.

Black ties, white shirts, crumpled suits.
Men of a certain age.
Sombre, respectful.
The cortège moves on.

Eyes wide and staring.
The sheep, her back broken,
Is filled with fear.
The farmer raises his gun.

Rabbits grazing.
The stoat decides
On the one
Who will feed her family.

A beautiful new born baby,
Cradled in a mother’s arms,
Still-born. It’s time,
Says the tearful nurse.

The giant oak,
Its mighty trunk
Lies fallen on the forest floor
Victim of the tempest.

The rock, granite hard,
A million years old,
Yields to the softness of water,
And is rent by the flow of the stream.

The remains of the blue speckled egg shell,
Litter the floor.
The chick has hatched.
And thrives.
Life holds on.

Along these sprawling streets
I have walked in rain and sun
In the bitterest sting of winter
And the brightest light of summer.

You think I do not know you?
How wrong you are.
There is nothing
I do not see or hear.

I am the shadow that passes by your window,
Disappearing quickly at your glance, as you ask,
“What was that?”
But I am gone.

Before your mean streets,
I was.
After them,
I will be.
I am the spirit of these hills,
I am what you have lost.

There comes a time in life
When all your obligations are fulfilled.
Work has become retirement
The kids are grown,
The house is empty.

There is a choice.
To fret, to regret, to look back
And cling to a past that is now
No more than just memories.

Or to relax into the present,
And accept the new freedom
That has found you,
And move into the next phase of life.

To engage with life
In a way that reflects
The new you that is emerging,
And seek meaning in new ways.

To enjoy the time that is left,
To use it in new ways,
And always,
To look around at the beauty
That is the world,
And to simply be.

Purpose fulfilled, free at last,
They frolicked across the road
As errant children might do
At terms end.

To each beginning, there is an end.

Lifted tenderly by a soft wind,
In eye catching harmony
Each leaf rose and fell freely
Bounding along together.

To each beginning, there is an end.

Adieu, my children,
Spoke the tree mother,
From the soil you came,
To the soil you must return.

To each beginning, there is an end,

For that is the nature of all things.
Birth, death, rebirth, the wheel turns.
Nothing is permanent,
Except the turning of the wheel.

There are those who claim to see the future,
and there are those who forecast the future
from the past.

It is they who are the true Prophets of what is to come.

For the past defines the future.
It shapes months, years, decades that are still to form
With a gentle glove covering an iron fist.

Eyes close, legs fold, the back straightens.
But the mind whirrs, unbidden thoughts, like angry bees,
Seize their opportunity to fly hither and thither.

Finally, the mind stills, even as the body complains,
Of back aches, and the agony of cramping legs.
The mind is seized by the pain, when will this torture end?

Next come the invading thoughts. What time is lunch?
Has the bell sounded? Have I missed it?
Who’s just got up? How can she sit there like that!

Recall the instructions. Count your breaths.
In, feel the lungs expand, hold it,
Now let the breath out, gently. Repeat. And repeat.

Eventually, the mind stills, the pain subsides,
Peace descends, and into the stillness,
There comes an indescribable sensation,
As one becomes One, and Love fills the body.

It is time to begin the separation
Of body from soul, said the Voice.
Must we, replied the soul?
There is much left to do.

It is not given to you too choose,
The moment of separation is long ordained
And even now the sands of time
Are running low.

So be it, replied the soul,
Have you any advice to give?

Enjoy each moment left to you,
Love all in your life,
Especially those closest to you,
Bear no one ill will,
And most of all, fear not,
For I will be with you,
Always and ever.