Sunday, 26 November 2017

A Winter's Eve



The constellations were magnificent. As were their celestial reflection in a stream running under the drooping branches of an almost fabled apple tree. Forming words from some wild living book, something like the first barely lit figures to walk as Man or Woman stir from out a modest cabin in the woods and stare up at the crisp dazzling night sky. The ethereal moonlit clouds move, like us, in a drowsy ponderous fashion beneath the brilliant countenance of their first mother and father, people who had slipped in and out of the living breast of the Earth like magical flesh and blood apparitions from out of a cave buried in the folds of the mind, the extended organs of whose most honest and nourishing language rooted, fruited, died and seeded new life every mile upon mile whose solitary joys or sorrows which were likewise powerful in some consummate communication of a force and story where our words bled into all that they would signify and likewise all that they would signify into our words at the root and seed of every successive impulse of life or death across epics of before and after one birth or another; a child, mother and father giving birth to a Man or a Woman as much as they shared in the first birth of one another under the stars and in the belly of the whale.















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