The Blue Book


“The sabbath rang slowly
in the pebbles of the holy streams.”

I’ve been singing with the birds,
playing a background drone
to their bright chatter,
content in chorus
rather than our constructed
choreography of quick sound,
dancing instead with what
exaltation first meant,
before god was a word,
before - even - the concept
of light or its lack.

Do you remember
when last you felt that
singing with birds
was even possible?

Before knowing it was not,
before knowing
that Snow White was just a story,
to be filed away safely under
“Fairytales”, figments
from a time before
we looked down on fiction,
no longer capable of finding
the shape-shifter we once were,
ready for any role:
cop and robber,
cowboy and indian,
pirate and pretty damsel in distress.

When the line through
each of our hearts
between hero and villain
was on show for all
to see what it really is:
the string of an instrument
made to sing its own story,
hopefully supported
by a few kind birds.


Baba Yetu

All the tuneful turning