Monday, 1 October 2012


Feet have
almost gotten
home - through the gate,
the path, a door,
turning green
to grey and brown;
from natural to man-
made - corroborated
by harder edges
and the sounds
of one hand turning
a handle’s practical
activity exhibiting
pattern and habit:
splitting a second. This
has happened many, many times
before - but there’s
a pulse today,
an unending slowness
and a longing old
seeking of senses
zooming their fibres
towards, out, and passing
a dovetail of door jamb’s
open inclusion
compression and feeling
a spot of reality;
a hug with my son
who whispers my ear
‘Daddy, hello;
you’re alive.’

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