The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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This post has in a sense been handed to me by two or three responses to my post On not getting it. In the course of discussing how a reade...
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Our seven faces looking down into the water... what
does the water show us of ourselves?
How time is linear when horizontal
but looked at vertically is rounded and compact,
how what lies far beneath us
like those pebbles on the bed
and what is past
(I think of branches overhead,
though seen by us in water as
a far more distant future)
are blurred by waves of feeling
disturbing our clear sight -
but still not here, not part of us, our time and space.
If we've forgotten where we came from
or if we never knew,
does it really matter that much?
Does it matter
that The North and The South Downs
have forgotten their old lives
as ocean floor?
Would they make far better hills
by recalling now and then
their lost and sunken ways?