Tuesday, December 25, 2012

32 Sun Feather

When in doubt, post in the end ... silent too long, I'm now going to sing
out loud!
32 Sun Feather



Wednesday May 2, 2012:
Buffeted by bitter rain,
our bodies braced against the wind.
You cleave the storm with Golden song.
Brave Blackbird Sing the summer in.
And let us raise our red flags high,
in honour of the workers day.
And let us raise our red flags high,
in honour of the workers day."
(Sung to the tune of The Red Flag)

Am I still in fire? It's been raining since April. My quest to explore this
element has been rather overshadowed by the need to change political
leadership in London. I've been on the hoof, come rain or shine, trailing
after Ken Livingstone. One more day to go now, I think. One more day and
another push to defeat Boris once and for all.
I take a break and think about the sun. I think about its golden warmth. If
I close my eyes and concentrate hard, perhaps I can take myself to a warm
and sunny place...
Sunlight shafts across the roof. It touches my cheek as I stand in the
still morning courtyard. Only the doves in their tower cot call softly to
the dawn, their cooing rippling and bubbling like the fountain that sings
amongst the paving stones in the centre of this space.
I turn and begin to move slowly towards its rippling softness. My bare feet
step tenderly on the marble slabs. I spread out my toes the better to feel
my way. The marble is cool beneath my feet.
What is this place? Where am I?
Methodically I explore the space. Like a cautious pawn slowly moving across
a chess board I step, wait, and then step again.
I am alone. I am alone in the square paved courtyard which has at its
absolute centre, a low-walled round pool and a fountain. The fountain
softly soothingly bubbles.
I walk round the courtyard one hand lightly touching the cool stone wall.
It is utterly smooth. I can find no trace of door or window. It is as
though I am in a topless box.
What is this place? Why am I here? How did I get in?
Above me, somewhere in the smooth wall, a dove coos. Droo-droo-droo". I
lift my face to the sound and through softly pursed lips, sing back.
"Droo-droo-droo."
I lay my hands flat upon the wall. Stroke its cool smoothness. This is a
perfect cube, I think. With sky for a roof and marble slabs for a floor, it
truly encloses me. My mind paints a picture. It is neat, symmetrical and
perfectly proportioned. I like that.
I walk round the space until I find a patch which is warmer than the rest.
Here, the early morning sun spills over the slabs. I sit down, full in its
ray, my face lifted to the heat. I wait.
"Droo-droo-droo". Coos a dove above my head. "Droo-droo-droo ", I coo
back.
I lift my arms, round and warmed by the sun, an invitation to the gentle
doves.
Something slight touches my outstretched palm. Drifting softly like a
butterfly kiss, it teases up my arm. Fingers search, seek its softness.
Nudging cautiously, a fingertip touches the very edge of featheriness.
Slowly creeping forward it feels its way across and pinions the fluttering
feather. The feather trembles silently in the gentle breeze, frail and
vulnerable in my hand. I know it's golden. I know it is the sun made real in
an insubstantial fleeting yet tangible presence. Hmm, what does this say
about the summer and the future? I live in hope.

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