Poetry,

when read aloud,

is soundless as it seeps through

skin to soul

burrowing deep beneath what

is already there to welcome

it home.

It is mother, well loved;

father and innocence;

teacher.

Lover.

It is a new,

treasured old friend,

leading, for the first time,

to some familiar place

where there is rest

and nourishment

and friends

and wisdom

and solitude.

Though I cannot trespass in
your confidential corner of creation,
the sanctuary from which your nucleus of being
shines her light into the world,
I can wait outside.

And we shall meet in neutral meadows between us
to share our stories of discoveries in those places,
enclosed in thoughtful solitude,
about ourselves.

Perhaps, surprised to discover,
in these isolated temples
with individual decoration,
the walls and weather are the same.

From: The Saint Of Travellers © 2018 David Webb

At birth
they dipped you in vinegar and lemon juice and
left you to dry in the bitter cold.

Shrivelled,
soaked, sore, soon
so still.

Almost spiritual it seemed
as darkness fell.
Soundlessly.

Fierce frightening.
Living, while little,
life’s darker flavours.

So, around you,
stepping carefully,
circumspect and cautious,
when my eyes could not yet breathe,
I felt inside, like yours,
my Faith, at such an early age, already
forsworn, dusty, splintered, disheartened,
finally, unused and abandoned,
expire.

As if to enter this world

for the first time
the first time.

World of others where
danger spread
her invisible wings
bright and brilliant
and veined with possibility
to delight or dare.

Where passion deep deep
poured from wells lined
with souls
and silence
crying cries of cries of those
who came before.

I hesitated. Stumbled.
Unsure and afraid.
Concealed.
From all those who
ran laughing.

Now,
after all of it,
all that hiding
in sight of soaring splendid moons
and rising suns
over and over
that which is not me,
I realise this dream
an inconsequential man.

This water in which
my body
shaped by the same,
makes space,
welcome anchorage where
I was unaware
I had died,
gave me, at
last, breath.

So silent
peaceful disturbance,
melted ‘round
my head,
so I could face
my own face.

Only then could I clearly see,
through blinded reason
and thoughts of many kings
and valleys where the water
having taken breath of its own
has spoken.

Wise words from
wise eyes.