Dark thoughts could creep in like a virus. Like if he got Ebola, if someone gave him it, or if he went and made contact with someone and got it. You couldn’t check all the people and the places they went, and the sanitary conditions of places.
People buried such awful fears.
On the news they showed aeroplanes and runway tarmac, doctors all scrubbed and polished wards…
…except it wasn’t about Ebola, it was just about fear, some terrible imagining that under someone’s fingernails was the possibility of real harm, real crazy harm. There were days when he felt doomed.
What are we
If the oncoming silences
Sweep in early to
Mute us even now?
And what if the stories we float
Are jetsam for the tide?
What prospect is a journey
When we cannot believe it ourselves?
And where do we get
If all the yards of days
Are dismantled by dusk
To bridge the way back home?
[The sounding of the curlew curfew / (This, always the sign) / Finds the search for meaning ended / Now friends only nod in hasty greetings / Fleet and hassled, as lovers depart / Less longingly, more slingshot / Into the frozen yawning dawn / Of our numbed tomorrows.]
We danced around the Maypole
With the ritual midst of faeries crowned
The queens of spring with wreaths
We welcomed up godesses
And all givers of life
And laid amongst the flower folk
Who ended winter strife.
We hoisted up the banners
And marched streets with flags
Scrubbed grub from working shoes
And belted up our rags,
To celebrate time’s rebirth
We sang comradely song
Resounding tunes of season’s worth
For past and suffering long
We pitched tents on heathen squares;
Made concrete just demands
And to swell the city’s purpose
Washed its feet and then its hands.