For a few weeks
a question has
beckoned me,
fluttering around my
ears;
I have tried
to tease out
the answer,
sought insight.
There have been
many fleeting
intoxicating clues,
echoes deep
of my soul’s search,
but nothing concrete.
Slowly, I slipped
into a sort of
despair
as the outside world howled
at my door.
I so hate to
squander even
one second of
dearest mythical June;
yet, I was there,
consumed by
whispered relentless
fatigue
with thoughts
tending towards
darkness:
mine but not me.
I forgot
at the threshold
of transformation
that creation is
coupled
intimately
with destruction.
Whilst I still
linger in the quiet
of not knowing in
which direction
my paintbrush tends,
it is unequivocal:
I am reaching an end.
And I have an inkling
that there is much to learn
from early summer evenings;
pink, beaming,
stretching luxuriously
like a puppy belly,
and the quiet, the calm
only broken
by sweet blackbirds at dusk
gifting us to the
beauty of song
and the unmistakable
peals of poignancy.
Harping On 