The Foot of God

I held on longer than most

to the secret of Wonderland.

No burrow

or hole

or floating O of a cheerio

nor a painting of a ship

can sail you there.

To look at the world from another angle

you need simply tilt your head!

Things begin to look up

when the sea hangs above the sky

and the spiral of galaxies

are riptides

celtic symbols

echoes of some unspoken words

hanging

In the infinite inches between us.

The only mystery to me;

the shallow still bowl

dipped in the navel of the valley

a glass of wine, rolled in your hand.

We stand on opposite, perpendicular, mountains

and you, a stranger, on the other side

feel so dear to me.

I shout, wave, caww like a jackdaw

whisper in your ear the smallest of SOS's.

Your voice carries; "Pardon me? I didn't catch that!"

Let's face the facts;

disregarding (the red herring) of the binoculars

you were a stamp collector.

I beat a retreat

underwater into waving wheat which like

sea anemones

whisper

the honey comb light

treats me gently

enfolds me

into a golden afternoon

and I am

no more than a piece of nature

as anonymous and peaceful as a

single

jigsaw piece

and the forest opens

welcomes me with open boughs

into a stillness pregnant with mystery

into the murmur of secrets

bubbling of the brook

silver leaves

twisting a star-studded cradle

overhead

And I—

I am the child at the alter

I sit at the foot of God

pressed, breathing, listening,

against the body of an ancient oak

to the same song that can be heard

in the roar of a single seashell.

This is a world than can only be reached

alone.

And loneliness is;

terrible, and

wonderful,

and painful and

great

and sometimes I

I feel like a newborn child

staring

into the white hot ashes of creation.