 Sunshine gilds my afternoon,
I hear soft susserations from the trees. Open windows, just right breeze. I am fondling soil between my fingers digging gently at the edges with a blade whose edge has long since gone, feeling for moisture, taking death, tossing fragments outside to turn the end into the snake’s mouth again. I pick a coil of shaped wood, small beads... India in my hand again. Beach sand between my toes, briefly, in the sprint across blazing heat to the cool relief of the wide ocean skimmed by flying fish. These beads, these memories lie coiled, foetally fatally fatefully amid the warm tones of a wooden bowl turned upon a halfway lathe in Lancashire, neither at ground nor above, suspended twixt. Did I make this? No, my Father, maker of beautiful things, like my Mother, maker of beautiful things. I am one of them. That’s cool. Home July 5 2023
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