Taste the air, touch the sky. Could it be magic Cressida, this portal to another life?
The chalice body holds grief but I would fill it with the milk and honey of a new land and return renewed, resurrected.
I sang the pirates gospel for a time. It was a long song and the rhythm carried me far from myself into storms and tempests, across currents of green and white foam. It was a song of surrender so simple even the ship’s cat could join in but when the carousing died away I was spelled into nothingness: caught in a cavity between latitude and longitude. All that was left was the swell of the sea, no point on the horizon to steer by.
It was not my song.
I thirst for a visceral communion of my own Cressida, rather than being tangled up in blue. Give me the crimson heat of colour and the saffron fire of the sun. Give me the green of the earth not the gold of the casket: I have no need of the pirate hoard. I need to find the frequency that resonates within me: my mind, my chalice.
What holds us together? Chalice body holds us together. One tree many leaves.
No comments:
Post a Comment