You are in a house that creaks with the memory of footfalls.
You are in a boat, far out in the Reaches, where rules change.
You are contemplating a wall, or an edge, or a border.
You are crossing a glacier.
You are singing in the darkness the rhythms to rock a child to sleep.
You are naming and claiming and walking and talking
Challenging, balancing, changing and raging.
You are bemusedly watching a cat.
The moon is rising and you are listening to water in the mountains.
You are extending a hand to somebody.
You are accepting praise, awkwardly.
You are pointing out a heron.
You are reading with delight, greedily, like a child under the covers.
You are watching the dragons rising, spiralling, and frowning a little, reconsidering.
You are eating little fried cakes, you are taking pickles to the communal barrel.
You are making and shaping and blinking and thinking.
You are finding your way back through a story
Like banging rocks in a circle,
Like light (no, faster than that) like the necessity of narrative,
Uphill, over broken ice, near a young volcano.
You are at home, or at least, you always know where home is.
That you are dead is grave. That you are gone seems impossible.
25th January 2018
