The river of my Life

  Categorised under: Poetry

the river of my life

From the centre of my be-in-ness there runs a river, flowing outwards,

I know love as a mother, breasts filled with milk,  before the baby cried.

On the floor lies the Persian rug, woven with hanging gardens, flowers and birds

The wind whispers to me in sonorous tones

I know the love as a mother, breasts filled with milk before the baby cried.

Bouncing forth, meeting, speaking, seeking, crying, laughing and back again.

The wind whispers to me in sonorous tones.

I do remember that sacred moment of being.

Bouncing forth, meeting, speaking, seeking, crying, laughing, and back again.

It is in the blood, bones and flesh.

I do remember that sacred moment of being.

I know the touch of the frozen lifeless limbs of my son, dead, spread-eagled on the dam wall.

It is in the blood, bones and flesh.

On the floor lies the Persian rug, woven with hanging gardens, flowers and birds.

I know the touch of the frozen lifeless limbs of my son, dead, spread-eagled on the dam wall.

From the centre of my be-in-ness there runs a river, flowing outwards.

-Written at Anne Shuster’s Moments of Being workshop, April 2007-