Ursula Le Guin

You are in a house that creaks with the memory of footfalls.

You are in a boat, far out in the Reaches, where rules change.

You are contemplating a wall, or an edge, or a border.

You are crossing a glacier.

You are singing in the darkness the rhythms to rock a child to sleep.

You are naming and claiming and walking and talking

Challenging, balancing, changing and raging.

You are bemusedly watching a cat.

The moon is rising and you are listening to water in the mountains.

You are extending a hand to somebody.

You are accepting praise, awkwardly.

You are pointing out a heron.

You are reading with delight, greedily, like a child under the covers.

You are watching the dragons rising, spiralling, and frowning a little, reconsidering.

You are eating little fried cakes, you are taking pickles to the communal barrel.

You are making and shaping and blinking and thinking.

You are finding your way back through a story

Like banging rocks in a circle,

Like light (no, faster than that) like the necessity of narrative,

Uphill, over broken ice, near a young volcano.

You are at home, or at least, you always know where home is.

That you are dead is grave. That you are gone seems impossible.


25th January 2018