Added on Monday 5 Nov 2012
(for James Scullion)
The roots of synchronicity lie with clouds,
wisps of windblown dreams of sense.
Country, face, clock; up pops the old friend,
chance. Finest thing, a ball rolling up a hill,
each curve has rounded out our lives. Each
side contains a painted face of ones we loved;
some we love still.
The roots of synchronicity lie with tributaries
of what we hope, fear, long for. Like tears they come,
down the deep scars of warrior faced mountains.
The warm frequencies of the heart know only the rainbow
fielded sonar, its strings attached to everything.
Remember that song, the one that once, winged itself to you
on your darkest day? Yes? Well stay still in your bed or fully
wake and rise this January morning. See it boomeranging back
on clear sails over the houses, each grim factory, each manicured street.
It's alright It says I sang, I sing, am in you, sing me then, sing me.
What a beautiful big sky this morning! Shouts someone in the house.
Aye! You answer. Aye! They answer. Fine tuning, turning up the radio,
sunlight streaming like excitement through opened summer windows;
upraised open arms of air pinning back the curtains to the wall.