I think about the times when
all that mattered was picking enough rose petals to
make a kind of perfume,
cloyed and browning in an ageing bottle,
given as a gift and sweetly accepted
to be later, discreetly, thrown away.
When smoothing palms on a hot, silver playground floor and
counting how many cards I'd collected or marbles swapped
was life to me:
the big stuff wasn't even in a dream,
or kernel of a thought;
it just wasn't even there.
As I get older I forget how it felt to be free,
a looseness of limbs at night,
where sleep was unavoidable, inevitable, and crept over me as
a heavy blanket, pressing out the day.
The times back then are shut inside a cabinet,
my face is pressed up to the glass trying to
feel that liberty again.
I look up at the sky and think about how it feels,
the scrolling 24 hour news a jumble in our heads,
we're no longer reading dystopian novels with a wry smile,
but instead a stone of fear in our stomachs
that these are our times.
Our hearts are full but our heads have become cynical.
We call each other up and talk about how dreadful it's become.
The times grind on but you can always find
a piece of hope to pluck from a tree,
and plant in the ground,
and bear more fruit. That's how it works.
It's a circle.
Stand by the shoreline and let the tide
breathe in and out to
soothe you with its sweet meditation.
Perhaps you might run fast not caring how you look,
or cry fat, salt tears from so much laughing
and your heart's memory says: this is that freedom again,
how could I have forgotten?
The times need love, action, and nurturing.
Let's not suffocate under gloaming clouds of anger, hurt and pain.
It's up to us to keep the circle going.