Sunday, 11 December 2016

This is what it is to be alive.

This is what it is to be alive.
A dog barks. Traffic.
Rain falling gently, consistently.
Still December afternoons,
a quietness over the world.
Skin porous and ready to absorb the world.
Alpacas in a field.
A small hand in yours
as you walk down the road.
This is what it is.
Skin erupting in blisters.
Small things in small spaces.
Someone remembers you.
A hospital bed.
Alive takes many forms.
This is what it is to be alive.
Heart beating at 4am in the dark.
The dog pushes her head under your hand.
A bottle of wine on Friday night.
This is it, this is what it is.
Colouring pencils in a small child's hand.
A wooden spoon stirring a bowl.
Family around the table.
This is what it is,
and this is what it is not.
To be alive, absorbing everything,
sucking it in to the soft centre,
churning it, burning it
turning it around
and then shouting to the rooftops
THIS! THIS!
THIS is what it is to be alive!