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as rivers that flow to the sea

How much one carries
and buries
inside –

and dark and kindness
and love,
the lust and the rust
and the sun and the rain,
like lightening
and nothing but
swords everything:

moments and memories
and nothing
but a star’s sparkle and dust:
waters to wade,
and peregrine shadows that are cast
by the carelessness of birds
in the ritual of flight –

little things that flutter
and twitch, butterflies
awaken by the touch of another.

Remind me again:
does such love ever last?
and does pain ever fade?
Is there time for a wing
and a flutter, the stutter
of the sun splitting the air into white
and a hundred striations of grey?
Do doves pray at first light?
Is every day a rebirth
for better or for worse?
Or is there always thunder
to wound the earth
and curse
man’s works?

And was it ever bright
and gay, the instant
dressed as dispensing goddess
and Nature unbound?
Were we ever brothers
or were there always others?
Remind me please so that I may know:
Are our memories ever sound?
Are they written in stone,
or do they grow
from the hallowed and fertile ground?
And just as rivers that flow to the sea,
so shall Nature and Mother again be?
© Nina Light 2015 CC-BY-NC-ND

Written with the above picture as inspiration.

It came to me via another blog, but I believe it to be from Paul Merton’s travels in India series.

In any case, it was too beautiful and central to the poem to withdraw on the basis of uncertain attribution alone, so if I’m mistaken and anyone knows its real provenance, please let me know so that I can add it here.


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