This door is shut fast
And I am locked behind it.
Never such freedom.

© Marcus Lane 2010

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” “Er war,”
“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by-talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird
At England’s very *****, thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.

Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between kin folk kin tongued even as are we,
Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly.”

It was a long time coming

And in the joining,

the consummation

Even then, in such sweet union

A sense

Of endings

And,  of course,

Of course

Beginnings.

The seeds of one born in the other



The paradox of this great truth embraced

I come to know that thus it is

And always was

For humankind

And we,

You and I

Are truly one in this.