It is the sun on the leaves and
the wind in particular because
it carries that smell of change
of movement
of sound
and pushes life into me
each breaking morning.
It whips the telephone wires against each other.
But the slanted shadows on the rooftops stay still,
marking the constancy of man within the Mother.
An olive tree twitches its leaves and
the laundry points towards it,
one accusatory tea towel as ancient as civilisation
on which to wipe our hands of
our rude interruption
and corruption of Her.
By Louder Than The Storm contributor Georgia Cadoret.
