Saturday, November 22, 2008


In your raging
words came spilling out in
torrents of white-hot anger.
It was like standing
on the edge of a vent
when the volcano is erupting
and you know you are going to get hurt.

But in this way it was different..
I could see that deep inside the magma chamber,
deeper than a man could reach,
there was a raw pain whose shape escaped you
but whose heat boiled underground
from origins beyond the span of memory and
times before your conscious world began.

Oh that time might take those wounds
and cool them in the cradled arms of love.
Oh that the sting of burning lava might

crystallise to strength of solid rocks
then weather down to wisdom's rich fertility.
Oh that I, imperfect as I am, might be

the healing, humble grass that
helps the barren land find beauty in its grasp.

(c) A McN

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