Contribution

Lying on my sofa in the late-afternoon sun

I sink into time, and time takes me 

To the duck-egg blue of the cabinet

And I see that somebody – somebodies –

Made all of this.

 

Wrote these books,

Painted these paintings,

Fitted these windows, more than once;

Plastered these walls,

Played this music,

And laid these pine floorboards,

A century and more ago.

 

Somebodies made these things of beauty,

These things of practicality,

And now their commingling voices

Come rippling through time.

 

Countless hands, countless minds,

Countless contributions, both seen and unseen;

Cups of tea made,

Dishes washed,

Secrets heard, 

Locks fixed.

 

Tears streaming down my face, now I see:

The preciousness of our souls cannot be measured

By the size or visibility of our contributions.

 

Wild

No more pain, the wind says - 

You've been too long in its quicksand. 

Beyond the muteness, 

Beyond the cravenness,

There's this -

This inlet where the tide comes in

These limpet-strewn rocks and

The orange beak of the oystercatcher

In the dim winter light.

Yes, layer upon layer has been stripped,

But what of wildness?

On this rain-lashed beach

It will no longer wait.

It wants me back:

I have been on loan to civility for far too long. 

Inhibition

If I was uninhibited
my hair would be wild and long
my eyes would be dark-ringed (like they used to be)
I would wear silver boots – legs akimbo -
and show my cleavage whenever I felt like it. 
 
If I was uninhibited
my house would be a sumptuous,
beautiful, eccentric mess -
as would I.
And if I was uninhibited
I would take up space like I meant it;
Sisters, there would be so much more of me.
 
If I was uninhibited, you would know me.
 
If I was uninhibited,
I would take back my sexuality -
lock stock and both smoking barrels -
and refashion it entirely for my own ends
 
If I was uninhibited
I would be spunky as you like
spilling over with generosity
I would be in the fray, punching my weight,
all muscles and teeth-baring,
snarling, howling, shrieking uproariously
and with the biggest shit-eating most glorious radiant grin
you have ever seen -
that is, when I wasn’t being silent because -
well, because.
 

On the Quiet

On the quiet, 
this cold and misty morning,
grace comes in - 
somewhere between sofa and window -
and tells me that I am forgiven.

Straight away,
I know that I am being forgiven
for trying to steal fire from the gods
and spilling my own jar of evils. 

Grace sneaks in
on the quiet,
subtle as always;
forgiveness does not come in a blaze of angels. 

You are forgiven, and I will be with you always.