"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I find myself here, wound up like driftwood upon a foreign shore.
Picked at by the sea birds who open up old scars.
This place is not unfamiliar, this desolation I am not unused to –
even if the sand beneath my prune like fingers is from a different rock
like the sea I drift like this from coast to coast.
Far above me spill the lava-clouds,
Like a fast forward reel they bring their weather.
I pray for the heavy mineral rain, a smell splashed through my childhood.
But I am brought only the loom of futile dark,
and the air instead sticks like smoke in my lungs.
I let the sun sink upon my back,
sprinkled now with the dried salt-sea.
I feel this heat towards my bones, my gut, my heart.
A gently lukewarm soul gurgles with a warmth familiar,
where you once were, the sun now seeps.
The lonely hours are whiled away in healing through the cleft parts you left.
It is I who threw myself upon the sea
In hope it would nurture the desert I once again must flee.