You accompany me on the walk mixed methods away
from eavesdropping on my thoughts, the sweet blend
of a leashed pet crossing the footpath and soft morning temperatures.
Broad summer leaves latched to branches, blossoms littering the way
appear to whisper back to breezes. A soft cloth of feeling holds its place.
I mouth the words to a song we grew up unlearning.
I hear the rocks, the grasses, the distance between empty space and woodwinds
living in my breath. Is there a place from which I can to find my way to
an imagined shore with margins clear beneath what clouds my reach.
Thinking ducklings along the canal still there. Small prayers
hatch my thinking, as though a rose imposing its simplicity
on my soul. I don’t remember who I am exactly.
I change into the space inside my head. So very velvety,
so within reach. I listen to you teach, whether you know or not
the space between what I think and what I do.
Same for you. The heat might blister pavement if I look.
If this is wilderness, I agree. If my life must be a major city
with glittery light, I’ll take it from there. From here
where I listen to myself in you become some other being.
The mockingbirds are through rehearsing; the olive trees
full of ripe green little miracles release hard tiny truths for us to sweep away.
Sheila E Murphy
Picture Rupert Loydell