I seem to be drawn to poem writing, more than anything else. This amazing period in which i’ve been so lucky as to drift again to a human scale of effort and time, has lead me to feel that the walls I built are breaking down. the defences for protection are crumbling, and I can see the light of day through them. Who I will emerge as finally, I don’t know. At the moment, I seem to be remarkably similar to the 18 year old that I thought I had to work so hard to defeat.
This poem isn’t about any particular morning, but it’s a quicky, in which I wanted to pin down some of the elements that I remember from the freshest, newest and most hopeful dawns I’ve seen — the ones viewed in the night sky after a party, when you somehow drift home, warm and ecstatic, knowing that these hours are yours and that you are awake when the rest of the world around you sleeps.
I may reedit and expand it later, but here is the skeleton.
Freshly washed the grass awaits the warming rays of day,
combed and stiff, as a coat of diamonds, the heavy dew lay
sparkling; fires raged over the black horizon
tearing strips of blue from the sky and laying pink anew.
Birds sit high, straining to reach the highest notes,
warmly beating, as fierce blood pumps through feathers
playing the drums; the night cracked and the morning lay bare,
I tell the truth about this for I was there.