“The truth was a mirror in the hands of God. It fell, and broke into pieces. Everybody took a piece of it, and they looked at it and thought they had the truth.” ~ Rumi
As a poet I love Rumi,
I love the weight of his words,
of how the mirror breaks
and many different versions
of truth grow within the family.
Within ourselves too.
A liberated sheep in a post Shepherd world,
poetic landscape of the soul
is my version of truth.
From fifteen to fifty,
a life-changing metamorphosis
which I faithfully recorded.
Now, four years later,
I come back to my mirror
to gather the pieces that reflect you.
The good, bad and ugly ones.
I thought it time to update
myself on your lasting effect.
So what has lasted?
Surprisingly not the pain,
nor the horror or heartache,
and this renders me speechless,
as, when I think of you now,
I remember other things.
I remember the echo of birdsong,
the image of a roaring fire,
the joy of hearing you both sing.
Sketching the moon and stars,
taking walks of wonder,
squirrels and bedtime stories.
I remember the day you told me to stand still
as, on a branch at the top of the pond,
I saw my first ever kingfisher.
You walked and talked the seasons,
I learnt which flowers would grow
in the hedgerows and when.
I remember tall foxglove spires
and tortoises in round tin pens.
Watching you milk the cows,
herding sheep, cutting corn.
I remember how your hands aligned with nature,
how every field became my home.
My childhood is with me in every wood I walk,
in the long caw of the crow,
in the short hoot of the owl.
In the life and death cycles of nature
my joy comes from connecting deeply.
Please know this learning lasted my entire life.
And what of the pain?
Even though I hold you accountable,
I choose to let it go,
let it move through me
and in so doing I become more human,
and so do you.
For I know life has beaten you up too,
that’s how karma works,
you grow up with pain
and pass it on.
Only I’ve left mine behind the family tree,
hopeful nature will reclaim it.
Keeping my heart open,
far away from the language of thorns,
allowing me to hear and feel
the cries of all who suffer.
Most especially you,
children of the universe.
I press these words to my soul,
dear mother, dear father,
for these will be the last words
I write to you.
Farewell, and peace be with you,
I love you and set you free.
Copyright © Deborah Gregory 2017