HUNTING MAGIC

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Only alone, now,
in quiet solitude,
I remember the loud
thrumming wild
of daffodils,
fence posts, door handles.
That being alone
means only returning,
retuning,
to the many voices of other.

Ambling to the head of a mountain,
I seek first the small grasses and stones
rolling between cold toes,
where a world murmurs,
poised on the edge of something.
Its vastness looming, like some
unknowable God
calling to be faced.

A lifetime, it seems,
to catch a glimpse of wonder.
Hunched over turned stones,
hunting magic once so vivid
now slipped away frightened,
under a desk or shaken into thin air
between the bell and clapper.

Desperate
to find the trail of breadcrumbs,
clutching wide-eyed and broken
at miracles and monsters.
Longing lost innocence
that listened for wingbeats of a ladybird
when cold toes braved colder water
and all the secrets of the ocean
lay restless in a limpet shell

 

© Simon Emile Tewfik Morgan 2018
from ‘A Turn of the Earth’

Photograph © Cara Forbes