Memory is a fickle mistress
who veils our deep waters
and brings to the surface
only that which she wants to play with.
Have you forgotten the bedtime stories
our earthly Mother still murmurs in patient breath.
Remember the way Her voice frolicked in timbre sway
and pages floated to the ground
carpeting our world in the colours of dreams
in the dim light of our sleepy eyes.
Oh, how Her rumbling tones could summons dark clouds
to show their frowning faces in a lightening dance,
and we’d set sail in drama unfolding
braving the tempest to find a home.
Have you forgotten the cool emerald waters,
silking the hot air like a siren’s beckoning
to quench our thirst on desert journey,
whilst hot sands tickled our toes.
Oh, how succulent and rich Her words tasted,
ripe with the anticipation of bursting nectar
trickling down our young chins,
with a smile playing on each pearly drop.
We have forgotten to earth ourselves to Her seasons
to recognise the seasons of ourselves,
reluctant to kick off our impenetrable shoes
for fear that one thorn in a million
may pierce our delicate soles.
I hear Her whispers still.
Through concrete walls and curtain stare
Her shadow reaches my misty eyes
and shows Herself once again
in the bedtime stories of yesteryear.
These are the stories I wish to tell my children,
with campfire glow flickering in my eyes
and clear rivers flowing through my veins,
with stars leaning forward with wide eyed excitement
and the moon hanging on my words.