Before me pages turn,
and the years unknown whirl down
the space of time.
And what is there in the crystal ball?
The crystal motes of light
around my head swirl amidst the haze
as the book’s cover slowly creaks open.
All manner of saints and sinners;
of angels and demons lie compressed
in the pages yet to be released.
The children yet to be born...are born.
The weight of love is like a gossamer shroud
binding and being bound; tighter or looser...
The Mother, still young and laughing
gets to die...and dies frail and ailing.
I go on down paths blindly turning
the corners of choice and forces outside.
Like a blind, blundering, behemoth I lurch,
lumbering towards the light.
And the Sun only dimly registers in my eyes.
And the Cat sings Kathmandu...
as I spin back down to myself at eighteen.
Making the book’s binding,
with the gloss of young love;
Sewing it with diamonds, rubies and garnets;
clothing it with cloaks of roses and blue grey dawns-
I bind the pages with young smooth white hands...
what is to be for a girl like me;
with fire in her hair; her eyes;
her smile and heart?
What forces do I call upon now
to quell the passion of the dream
and so become the server; pliant;
over-gentle; giving; giving; taken-away?
This book of mine is becoming a little too overbound
as the years progress...
it needs the faery dust of silliness,
the sparkle of nonsense
and the wondrous eyes of childhood
to lighten up its heaviness.
Middle Child 2001