The Ring

I am sitting on the crossroads, facing west.
I have been sitting here for an eternity.
All around me, buildings rose and withered away.
The people, they have run from the sirocco, knowing what it will bring.
They have fled, rather than face your truth.

I am sitting on the crossroads, eyes closed.
I breathe in the scent of your palm leaves, and carob fruit.
I sway with the jingle of ancient civilizations I've long left behind.
I lean forward, with the warmth.
I lean forward, and take flight.

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West, I fly.
Like an arrow sped from your bow,
I fly.
My eyes pick out shapes and movement,
but I do not stop.
West, I fly.

The wind you summoned flits through my pinion wings.
Warm air lifts me higher.
I will not pause,
I shall not tarry.
Signs of you,
are my only query.

Ever west,
higher still,
I fly.

The sun cannot catch me.
Onward, I go.
West, I turn my eye,

Farther,
this bird of prey,
no matter the weather,
shall fly.

I close my eyes,
gliding into the full redness,
of the horizon's embrace.

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From the dark depths I rise,
I am seeking,
I am searching,
for a sound,
for a hint of light.

A hollow roar,
as I seek to draw breath,
I surge higher,
breaking the waves.

I have disturbed the boats,
a behemoth of the seas,
a mammoth of life,
I shoulder aside a ship.

I submerge once more,
and from within me echoes a wordless cry,
rattling glass,
shaking moorings,

I am booming,
in waters' vast expanse.
I am blooming,
shaking ocean's cold embrace.

Distance has no meaning,
as memory pulls me north.
I know what I seek;
What it is I've always sought.

North,
this leviathan,
goes forth,
seeking.

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I breathe in
the scent of rotten leaves,
the aroma of a fresh kill.
Mother was here.

Gnawed bones surround me,
as I take my first steps out of this den.
Newborn, I open my eyes,
to take in winter's first light.

The sun.
The light reflecting off sister-moon.
Your glory, even reflected,
blinds me.

I spring on a south-eastern trail.
I hunt the sun.
I hunt spring and summer both.
A hare bounds forth.
A small life ends.

Bloodied and warmed,
I head towards your season,
I eat the miles,
sinking in freshly-minted snow.

I chase the birds' laughter,
I race a frozen river,
I hunt the shadow of a cloud.
Bloodied,
but still a cub.

East,
I scent your spring,
South,
I stalk your summer.

I grow,
I find life in death.
Low to the earth I go,
into promised yesteryears.

I close my eyes,
my nose scents you still,
this hunter of the tundras,
springs and summers with a will.

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I rise from my seat,
I raise my eyes to the firmament.
I smile,
for your glory is reflected in the world.

Your wind pushed me,
as the western-heading wing-rider.
Your sound pulled me,
as the northern-bound monster of the seas.
Your scent had drawn me,
as the predator returning home.

Your will has taken me,
three-quarters of a circle.
And I turn around.

There you are.
There you've always been,
behind me,
an efreet and a djinn.

I lower my arms,
the heavens urge me forward.
I open my eyes,
and open them again.

With the desert hunter's eyes I look at you.
I am blinded by your brilliance.

With the whale's mouth I call to you.
I am deafened by your resonance.

With the wolf's nose I scent you.
I am intoxicated by your fragrance.

Blinded by your sight,
I see only you.
Deafened by your sound,
I hear only you.
Choked by your presence,
I feel and breathe only you.

Forever I have stood here.
The stars and sun and moon, wheel around us.
Life and death surround us.
Forever,
civilizations rise and fall,
and their remains ring us.

Forever,
and no more.
Forward,
I step.
To you,
I reach.
To your blinding hair of sun,
to your searing skin of snow,
to your scent of home,
to your sound and din
of kin.

I reach out to you,
I open my eyes,
I open my palm,
to give you,
what lies,
within.

This poem is the third inspired by, dedicated to, and written for @mamadini, shared with everyone else at her kindness. I actually hadn't written any poetry or prose since 2009, but when the muse comes, it comes a-knocking.

• The alliterative piece, She Is Coming with the Clouds was the first, trying to capture the style she favours in her own spoken word creations.
• This love poem, Return to The Garden, was my longest poem to date. And then after I went to sleep after gifting it to the recipient, I was struck by the opening to this very poem, and the next day, poetry demanded of me to write it, which got us to this piece.

Also, thanks to @authorofthings in particular for helping me sand off the piece's rougher parts.

art and flair courtesy of @pegasusphysics

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