Mare Street

Coming back from Mare Street,
Returning home through blazing sun,
Through the pedestrian flurry of Hackney,
Great bodies abundantly veiled and motionful,
Ambling, gliding, dancing, pacing
The pavement slabs
With an ancient rhythm like rain.

Suspended

Suspended in a jar of viscous fluid, like egg white, like my life. Paused for a moment or simply just beginning, it can be so hard to tell. Unlike the conveniently structured narrative of a book, a life has an infinity of evolving threads, the majority of which are invisible, undetectable like a piece of lint perhaps, invisible to the naked eye, unless discernible for an instant caught in a ray of sunlight.

Living, life happens around us when the door is open; reaches into us, where we can either decide to push it away or look after it. Ideals rarely exist. Rather, they make manifest impossible obstacles to the profoundly challenging morphologies of the unexpected far greater than a picture. We live in constant uncertainty.