Читать книгу The Sunrise Liturgy - Mia Anderson - Страница 10

It’s shorelight you’re seeing,

the sky performs a metaphor

for you

(like Chaplin putting his bowler hat

under the bed at bedtime)

the riverrun of sky this time (every time) being

our life lived, with banks or berges

in need of shearing. Did you know

shore comes from shearing?

Imagine.

Dawn’s twilight sees us

shorn of our matted dreams

disembarrassed of our shag by our bergers

and shivering with expectation

at the fringe of the day

like sheep

or else sheep waiting to be driven

into the flood to wash their wool wool-white

after the treatment —

liminal

Hebridean for now, and blinking at it all.

So that great band of orange in the sky

is a sandbank and seems to bank

the choppily skidding sky

but it’s your life it’s banking on.

Really.

And all our life we’re just part

of a shore people who were born to this,

for this.

We grew up here aquatic apes,

youngster apelets each of us once

hanging onto our mother’s every hair

and she weaving the shallows, the littoral

a few million years ago.

Seems like yesterday.

Hope

so they say springs eternal but I say

hope is solid, factive

it is our all-season all-terrain our

home and native

shore

dawn is the land we thrive in, that’s

our song its

theme, shored up here for something

we know nothing about

far out and away beyond.

Dawn

counts for a lot

with us, and accounts for a lot

or so I think I know —