Author: Wisdomofrhiannon

The evening wind chilled our faces and ran its fingers through our hair.
Behind us, the canvas of the tent flapped and the flames of our camp fire flickered.

In the West, the sun was setting. In the valley below,
darkness was embracing the village.
Ghostlike, long fingers of velvet shadow caressed house and chapel, street and road.
Isolated streetlights fought back. Puddles of light, surrounded by islands of shadow.

But did we care?
We were kings of the world, camped high on the top twmp.
We sat and talked as 11 year olds do,
Of this and that and nothing,
Until the fire became embers,
And the chill of the night pierced our bones
And overcame our youthful zest

Yawning, it was time for sleep we agreed, until we saw the beginning of the end of the world.

It was the decade of confrontation. East versus West. Four minute warnings. The papers were full of it. World War Three loomed. And now it had begun. Flashes filled the horizon. Red, green, blue continuous waves of colour. We knew we would soon be dead. It’s what radiation does. Hiroshima and all that. I had read about it in the Daily Mirror. We gazed down at the sleeping village below. Strangely calm I recall.

The night wind got colder. Our teeth chattered.
The fire was now only ashes. So we went to bed.
Never expecting to get up again. But we did.

A silver moon chased by clouds
That cannot catch it.

Peace chased by a world
That will never know it.

Poverty’s end promised
By the rich getting richer.

Nature and climate protected
By benevolent oil companies.

Everywhere,
Words without commitments.
Promises without fulfilment.
Agreements that only obscure,
Promises that never deliver.

Those that care speak,
But lack power.

Those with power,
Look away.

“Who are you” I asked?

At my best, I am your hopes and fears,
I am your joy and laughter,
The road you walk,
The stone in your shoe,
Your stumble and fall.

“Who are you” I asked?

I am the love that holds you in its grasp,
All seeing, all caring love
Brighter than the sun,
Deeper than the deepest ocean,
Rest in me, and know me.

“Who are you” I asked?

I am God, seeing all, knowing all,
The secrets of the heart, I read,
Your innermost thoughts I know,
For I am you, as you are me.

“Who are you” I asked?

Why, I am you,
Inseparable, undivided
You live in me, as I live in you,
In a love beyond knowledge
Without boundaries, without limits,
That is who we are.

Within The emptiness of the bowl,
lies the potential.
Within the stillness of the pottery,
Flows the vibration.

The movement of the hand,
Signals the intention.
The striking of the baton,
Provides the release.

Silence becomes sound, until,
Sound fades and becomes silence.
Yet the vibration never stills
Completely.

Within the confines of the mind,
Stirs the thought
Which fades
But never ends completely.

The stoat stalks;
The rabbit stands,
Hypnotised and
Frozen.
The kill is quick.

From life to lunch,
In an instant.
From breath to death,
And the last
Heartbeat.

It was not the bite
From the short teeth
That kills,
But the shock
Which stills the heart.

I knew nothing of this.
I saw only the corpse
Of a rabbit, moving,
Invisibility drawn,
By what I could not see.

Then the stoat came into view,
Tiny compared to her prey.
She viewed me as I approacher her.
Reluctantly she backed away,
Abandoned her prey.

I passed on, mind full of my cares.
Then I stopped, and looked back,
It was to see the carcass of the rabbit,
Jerking, moving intermittently,
To the lunch table.

Belatedly the thought struck me.
How thin is the difference
between life and death,
And how precious each breath.

She came to take our order
With a delightful smile
And carrying
A pencil and her order pad.

“Two teas,” I said, “Please.”
A frown of concentration
Replaced the smile,
As slowly and carefully,
She wrote the order down.

It took a few minutes,
But we didn’t care.
To be in her company,
Was to be in the presence
Of joy itself.

What nature had withheld,
Love had given in abundance.
“With that be all?” she asked,
As waitresses do.

There was a pride in the way
She brought our order over.
A fierce concentration,
A determination not to spill a drop.

She put she tray down, carefully,
And rewarded us with that smile again,
This time of relief and pride,
At a job well done.

We left her to clear our dishes away,
But we took with us
The memory of that smile,
And a deep taste of the love,
She brought to our table.

Soft grass
Beneath the feet,
The rising hill
Steals the breath.

Light fading
Shadows lengthening
Wind chills
Face and skin.

The creatures of the day, still
Those of the night, rise
To hunt and to kill,
To feed and fill.

Venus shines, Red Mars calls
But the moon,
Queen of the night
Reigns supreme.

The brow of the hill
Is past
The lights of the town
Are gone.

Just I and the moon,
Alone,
Travel on.

It started with the arrival of the men in suits.
They were big and burly,
At least it seemed to me at the time,
For I was only five,
And clinging fiercely to my mother’s side.

Their shirts were white, their ties coal black.
Looking back,
I would say their demeanour was somber,
Respectful,
As it should be when you lay a fellow miner in the grave.

I didn’t know what death was then.
Why didn’t the earth stop?
How could life continue?
I cried to myself in amazement.
But the coffin came out through the window,
Into the hearse, and away down the road it went.

And somehow, life continued as it had before.

Wounded Madonna.
Where did it all go wrong?
You bring your son into the world,
beautiful child, angelic smile.
Dependent on breast milk
and a mother’s love.

Wounded Madonna.
You have your own stuff to deal with
from your entry into
an uncaring and hurtful world.
The trauma and pain,
Are generational.

Wounded Madonna.
Alone. You do your best.
Husband? Partner? Absent,
as are
The necessities of life,
Money. Food. Shelter.

Wounded Madonna,
Where can you find rest,
space for yourself,
except in the brief solace
offered by tobacco, alcohol and drugs?

Wounded Madonna.
The child grows.
Ahead lies only
Crucifixion. It begins at school
With expulsion for minor misdemeanours.

Wounded Madonna
Next, prison sentences, each one
longer than the last,
until jail itself becomes
his refuge, his home.

Crucified son.
The cycle perpetuates,
as you become a father,
absent of course, and your partner
Becomes another Wounded Madonna.

Christ like,
The doomed baby,
pays for the sins
of its forefathers
in perpetuity.

World
Without
End.