Rain in the forest. Where it is beginning. Change is
happening deep within, where your head goes back
on the chair. The dream spinning blue and white
in your mind like the terraqueous globe.
Today if you will hear this language. You are
travelling back along the brain-tracks and
the sentences to a place: water and consolation.
Where it is raining in the native greenwood,
like a heavy coat. As the map is getting sodden,
blurred, falling apart from being folded.
As your finger traces across the folding
green and brown, the road like a blood vessel
unwinding inwards through the fabric. As it
disappears, getting thinner, into a valley of fog.
Where it is raining heavily between the trees.
Your head goes back on the chair as your eye
closes. Four hundred years away, somewhere
on the Spanish Main, beak-headed galleons
filling dreams with full sails…
A man steps ashore where no-one else has.
And a flock of parrots blots out the sun.
Or your eyes close, seeing the place where
the noise of rain through leaves is silence.
Where the creeks begin in nerve-ends, going
back in intellectual memory. Today if you
will know the place. Where the rain is falling
in thick curtains through your childhood,
spattering the leaf into the clay-face.
This is a secret place. Where it was shuttled
together: the flesh of earth and the flesh.
Half the tree’s roots are feeding on air, where
the bank has been leached away. Or they
are flowing, clasping the four red chambers
of the heart. And feeding their fabric.
What world are we walking in, where the ways
out of time are brief and through language.
Where is the mind’s place. I am saying it is
not here or here, but has its place in
metamorphosis, at the taking place, at
moments which are far from this one.
These are the steps into change. The body
lying down in the earth and the leaves. The rain
in the forest like sheets. The wildflower bending
its head. The trees. I am saying there is
a declension in memory where the mind goes and is.
Where it is magnificent. Where the wildflower bends in the rain.
© Philip Mead