Torn apart, my best piece of writing,
or so I thought by a cruel comment.
Like the backwash of a wave broken on our beach
The many rocks worn, cracked across their middle
still able to give a warm seat when I tire.
I have my favourites, where I can
run my hand across the small scars.
Straight lines, cruel whip marks
we all age and crack given enough time
The road marks on our faces as we age
The map of time passing,
the rift that marks all things.
The land falls away leaving a hollow
for the unknown traveller to fall int
A large cloud falls apart as if someone
had pulled a cotton ball in two.
It drifts on by, to be swallowed
by the other waiting clouds.
Whole again, as we too will be
when one puts a hand out to the other.
The rift is repaired. Would that everything
could be so easily mended
as a cloud drifting by.
With time and water, the force of the oceans,
the cracks in the rocks will be smooth again,
their story untold. As if age had not touched them.
How do we mend a rift in time itself?
What falls between the space where
time has moved away from itself?
Like the wish written on paper as a child,
folded so many times
hidden in the crack of a rock on the beach.
My own wailing wall.
I have no recollection of the wish coming true
It may have done. Time has taken the memory
As I am sure the sea has taken my piece of paper
Smooth or cracked, a boulder
will tell its own story if you sit awhile…