Sunday before breakfast
I stare at the blank page and imagine
out of all the possible, impossible things
which six I should believe.
"It is practice", the Queen said.
"Half an hour a day", she said.
And so, I believe:
Children will learn,
about bees and pollination,
not the sound of a gun
on automatic fire.
Hearts and borders will open
we will welcome them home,
we will not abandon them
to tumble, through the rolling surf,
Leaders will listen and be moved
by the rising tide of change,
not the fear of small men and dark times.
That's only three.
So many impossible things.
I close my eyes.
I draw three more:
The Sacred Waters will call
and spread her Guardians
from sea to sea to shining sea.
Love will shatter all the hardness
and the world will dream his dream
held by a collective understanding
of belonging, of tribe.
I am tired now, and it is only Sunday before breakfast.
So many impossible things that require us to hold them
despite evidence, despite history, despite frailty and failings,
hold these things self-evident:
Representation is not optional
All life is tribe.
The Master's house must be dismantled.
We must not re-build it with his tools.
Tomorrow I will practice again.
Fiona Mackintosh (© February 18, 2018)