A re-drafting of a poem posted to this blog a couple of years back. Relevant then to me as I continued to make my increasingly cautious way forward into the years immediately ahead, it resonates just that little bit louder now.
Much as at the point when suddenly rain stops,
or wind abates,
or cloud obscures the sun,
there is a moment just between
breathe in and breathe out
when shock stops the spin and hum of it all
and in the silence and the stillness
we are changed entirely.
At this point the surgeon reads morbidity into
the slip and twist of tissues,
the plasticity of form,
the salt and vinegar of juices.
And from then, back on the street,
you may glimpse over and again
around the crook of each and every corner,
mortality’s black sleeve flapping
like a torn flag.