A story evolves
From the tugging and sighing;
“I’m a traveller, a roamer with nowhere to rest!”
“I’m a gatherer, a mother
Waiting to suckle her brood!”
Free hippy-trail-seeker in nomad cloth.
And homeward-bound shopper; how odd to be both.
Yes, this was a lively morning –
(The radio tells stories
Of riots and death in Cairo) –
The world’s seams breaking open,
Voices cracking through middle-earth.
And my body also breaks
Into the day, saying
“My life is not my own!
This tangle of earth of sky
Is the very fabric of
Of where I am reborn!”
What is broken is foundation-stone
And all I considered waste
Is the milk and gold of my morning shrine.