a vocabulary for a woman on the rugged shore

when words and not-words
have scraped the gentleness away
and she feels like sand - her bones and dreams
pulverised, then aggravated by endless tides,
all the softening of lace and tea and quiet books eroded -
when this has come about, as it does to everyone no doubt,
she will go to green, remembering that remedy -
to meadows and overgrown lanes, to willow trees
that share benevolent poetry with the wind, and
sanctuaries of wildflowered grass, cosy places where the sun
falls mildly through leaves, where she can sit peacefully,
and just be;

and if she can not get there, because of weather,
or schedules, or the ache in her ungentled bones,
then she can go softly, go kindly, through the
half-forgotten pathways of her waking dreams -
she can sit on a sofa, holding cushions to her heart,
or on a doorstep with bees drifting past in search of flowers,
and she can lift herself with compassion, and carry herself
with care, into the beautiful places of her own soul,
where love, and remembered tranquility, and wishes,
and hope - always that fragile tender blossom of hope -
will weave a new gentleness from the inside out,
and heal the scrapes from a rough-edged world.

we can have everything we need inside ourselves but we have to be mindful to put it there.

1 comment:


In the quiet hours, the inbetween moments and the half-light, I sometimes like to write. My books are made from fairytale shadow and old magical songs. They speak about dreams, lost wishes, longing for something beyond the self, and always about love. You can learn about them here.

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