Wednesday, 10 October 2012

On Washing Up on an Autumn Day

Elbow deep, water warm.
There is a squeak to ceramic,
a smooth slip, soap and cloth,
and fingers pink with work.
Eyes on the sky through glass,
on elder offering berries to birds,
on rain washed grass, and terry towelling
hung as a surrender to life and love.
And the thought in your mind,
open like palms held to the sun,
that the water and soap, the berries
and the translucent sky, are no less you
than flesh and bone. The air in your throat
no less you than birds uplifted by wind.
The world begins at your feeling fingers,
a Möbius strip in your hands.