It takes a long time.
I wander for hours, years, miles
through countries, continents.
Sometimes there is water,
sometimes sand.
I return to these, and finally
make my stand.
I am five. I am seven.
In the water, by the shore;
I hold a twig up, brandished sword.
Later, in the quiet play,
away from salt sea spray
and the camera recording our day,
I find myself alone -
‘a prettyish sort of wilderness’
as Austen will describe it, later.
Everything, later, to come.
For now, crouched on brackish sand,
barefoot in shorts, planting
and uprooting joy.
© Shaista Tayabali, 2021
(recited at DVerse Poets Open Link night)
It's the new year, I think... although my Christmas tree is still up with all the little mice and the twinkling lights. I am redoing the six week yoga course I did at the end of last year, just so that my body doesn't forget how to move. Bed, which was always the most comfortable spot in the house, is an even more huggable place than ever. Especially in winter, under a cosy duvet, looking out at the bare limbs of our willow. There was a time when Mum was tempted to have it cut because the roots are tearing up the courtyard, but I am so glad no decision was made. It would have been lonely without the willow keeping me company. I attended a poetry and trauma workshop this weekend and after leading us through a visualisation meditation, the writing prompt was to remember a happy place and write about it... this is the memory that returned after much wandering through my mind...
