All suddenly the wind comes soft, And Spring is here again; And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green And my heart with buds of pain.
My heart all Winter lay so numb, The earth so dead and frore, That I never thought the Spring would come, Or my heart wake any more.
But Winter’s broken and earth has woken And the small birds cry again. And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds, And my heart puts forth its pain.
-rupert brooke (spring sorrow)
I walk the gully again. The winter months showed signs of settlers. A camp by the river, ashes of a long night's fire and the start of a stone wall. A plastic water pistol to ward off predators, in the dark we all look menacing. There was a grocery cart as well, filled with cardboard boxes. On the side written in black felt pen, "pictures from living room"
I've seen him in the early dawn, a huddled shape under a sleeping bag, like a corpse waiting for an identity. When l go in the afternoon, he is gone, sometimes his sleeping bag is stashed in the bushes along with empty bottles of mouthwash. He has made a nest now, out of dried bramble, it looks comforting, and warm and like it would be okay to go back there at night.
"For each person lives in layers of memory and desire finding an outer form for an inner world space. Querencia: the unique personality of our very own place. Querencia: small subtle ways to make ourselves at home. Querencia: the right of sanctuary to be one's self in. Each must create by humble pride our den, nest, haven. Rites of sanctuary find us freedom to be who we are. -r.atkinson ...those words were written by my friend ron atkinson. Ron is a brilliant and beautiful man. ...he knows love.