Wabi-Sabi
This isn’t about my lounge no longer in the saloon bar.
This isn’t about the lack of panelling and having to live with the Collinsons’ twelve-year-old wallpaper. This isn’t about the 1970s rockface over the grate instead of a tall mantel; This isn’t about the stink of exhaust and incense when I settle each evening, Wondering if it came with me ... Nor is it about Woodfest again, nor about the sun shining on fresh-carved creatures; nor the crowds milling round the coffee-stalls, nor the colourful crush in the second-hand tents; Nor is it about the little ones wide-eyed in tow, and on tip-toe with dripping ice-creams, Too much for their little eyes to take in ... And this is certainly not about Eating chicken and chips, my fingers suffering. Not about my tongue and nose in love But my finger-skin wrecked, my thumbs shredded; This is certainly not about the question of eating in gloves ... This is not about my Best Buddy with the loved voice - on the phone, in the next room, Not about his voice calling upstairs, or popping his Santa Claus head round the bedroom door; This is not about that voice I hear every day, not about the voice I sing with over and over again ... This isn’t about the way the past is confused with the present Nor perfection with imperfection, nor yet my giddying encounters with Wabi-Sabi ... |