Slow your pace to a meander
that I may spread my waters
like a sheet upon your bed
here upon my mossy lap take root
and reflect as do I
on the shifting sky
while my babel tongues
hush to still
trickles through your fingers
and moves on –
a journey ended
when only just begun
I with my spate and flow
gather the rubble from a thousand dreams
pour over rock
seep into cracks
It’s only a big hole in the ground, man-altered over the span
Of two centuries while all distant history carried on around.
Until, one day in the fifties, the men left and the pumps stilled.
Let us again go down the steep, well trodden path to where
The pool filled slowly and is now deep and black as shadow,
Edging the smooth slate cliffs, reflecting what light there is.
This created space, as through a lens of glass, affirms, fixes and
Enhances our time, place and space in this world.
The overarching rock frames the secretive pool and surely
Here, if the muse exists, and is at large, she will whisper and
Quietly invite us to come again, even as we head up and out
Onto the old flat ground where the white birches grow.
There are places we visit and pass through, while others
Make us linger and return. They exist quietly and being quiet
May become notable and significant, allowing acquaintance.
They become resonant with occurrence and memory which
Even when far away and distracted by ordinary concerns
Awakens a response, urging us to strive to go where the light is.
It doesn’t look much from the outside, but inside there is everything! Behind this heavy metal door, which once slammed across her fingers … eek! Up came her shoulders as she winced at the memory. On entering, it occurred to Katie that no matter what the temperature outside – hot as it was on this summer’s day- the temperature in her Dad’s workshop was always the same. She delighted in visiting with the workshop when it was empty. No angry circular saw, threatening to take fingers, good job her Dad was steady. No welding sparks, sizzling and glowing with a drifting stench that hits your nose. She felt pleased her dad cared for himself. No clashing hammer and whirl of wood- chewing drill. He has learnt how to use his tools well, she mused. Feeling full in today’s stillness, this silence had a back drop of a gentle hum from the cylindrical light and the beat and breath of herself. Katie began tinkering. Ruffling in the sawdust rug, to find discarded wood and opening oily dust clad boxes filled with treasure. Her eyes cast about in awe of myriad things, waiting to be useful and myriad tools, waiting to make use of things. With hammer and nails Katie turned her piece of wood into a work of art, leaving it in pride of place on the workbench.
I look at my feet on the floor – the sawdust rug is still there. My Dad’s workshop has changed location, how it feels has not changed at all. Every nook and cranny filled up and it’s all him. My Dad’s steadiness, his care, his strength and ability to make and mend, his big heart emanates from this place. I don’t come in here much now, although when I do it still fills me, Katie spent many an hour breathing it in and tinkering. Leaving her work behind, wanting to know and be known. I believe Katie achieved her goal, I do know and I am known. I don’t need to know anything else. I don’t look much from the outside, but like my Dad and his workshop – inside there is everything!