cI wandered in search,
Of what makes me human,
Down to the creek bed,
Along the corridors of the library,
That was eons before words and books.
Images of nature imprinted on rock.
All meaning there laid under pressure,
Where tiny soft bodies,
Encased in bony structures,
As minerals seeped,
Into the fleshy bodies,
Of squid and sea dragon,
And spiral patterns,
Skeletal charts of natural history.
From the ancient past.
Here I am witness,
And messenger of natures’ secrets.
The past immortalized.
My question ‘is it that which we aim?
Immortality, through making marks, words,
Stories on page and canvas.
Can I be the carrier of knowledge,
Like the fossils in the creek bed,
Or am I just a fleeing dream,
Or am I The Black Dark Well.
A pale beige slim beaked and tailed bird,
Hammers at the base,
Of an everlasting spring daisy,
For bugs and insects.
It is only its movement,
Flitting in and out of the shadow,
That tells me it is there.
Moving from one bush to another,
Along the creek bed.
It’s the first bird I’ve seen, here,
Maybe I need to be more observant,
Looking closer, listening, taking time,
Take more leaves from this library,
I see stretched out before me.
The weighty serious eternity,
of marks made,
Not by me but by greater things,
In the library of the universe.
—My Moroccan Caravan