Turning.
Turning this way,
then that.
Turning away.
Turning in.
Turning to silence.
Turning to the
mirror on the wall.

Never one way,
never that,
moving,
ever moving,
and juggling with time.

Moving and turning in
the womb,
and then through broken
water out to life,
in turning,
this way,
that,
moving forward,
moving back,
and one day on top,
the next another place
of turning,.

Cast the lot.
Cast it.
Who owns anything
anyway?

Cast it into the land,
the sea,
run through the tempest back
to me.

But always the turning, the moving,
ceaseless, urgent,
seeking stillness in the
fading day.

 

27/4/2023