Retreat to the Womb
Grief is a swirling thing,
an all enveloping cloud
of white, and black, and deepest grey;
-a watery world in which
to weep and gulp and wallow,
alone, and lost, turning, turning…
searching a world of “I”s and “why”s
for meaning,
unconscious of that cocoon of love
surrounding.
Grief is a lonely thing,
a bruised isolation;
internal world where once we knew
the emptiness of parting
from that divine from whence we came,
and now return to mourn again;
searching our souls for understanding,
sorrowing,
unconscious of that cocoon of love
supporting.
Grief is a fearful thing, and angry too,
that’s carried for a while;
where measured time is long enough
to rail and kick and punch and scream
in silent unrelenting pain,
in juvenile and unseasoned rage,
searching through files of human logic,
restlessly pacing,
headless of that cocoon of love
embracing.
And grief is senseless too.
The outside Spring cannot impinge.
No joy awakes with singing thrush,
or smell of hay, or taste of honey.
It only feels the undigested pain
that’s balled and cramped inside.
And blindly scrabbling from the misery ensuing,
is oblivious of that cocoon of love
renewing.
But there is warmth in that cocoon,
and nourishment. In shrunken world
where language to express is yet unknown,
the healing does begin.
A steady heartbeat, wise and strong
beats out a patient rhythm;
and dropping, dropping,
like dew or quiet tears
the pain dissolves and falls away.
…… We’re growing!
The world of “I” is now too small.
The sounds and senses of earth recall.
A sudden yearning to grow in space
rejects the confines of this tiny place.
It bids replenished soul set forth
with courage, faith and sense of worth;
replace womb's gentle healing pace,
with the challenges of our human race
……….like a new born babe!
an all enveloping cloud
of white, and black, and deepest grey;
-a watery world in which
to weep and gulp and wallow,
alone, and lost, turning, turning…
searching a world of “I”s and “why”s
for meaning,
unconscious of that cocoon of love
surrounding.
Grief is a lonely thing,
a bruised isolation;
internal world where once we knew
the emptiness of parting
from that divine from whence we came,
and now return to mourn again;
searching our souls for understanding,
sorrowing,
unconscious of that cocoon of love
supporting.
Grief is a fearful thing, and angry too,
that’s carried for a while;
where measured time is long enough
to rail and kick and punch and scream
in silent unrelenting pain,
in juvenile and unseasoned rage,
searching through files of human logic,
restlessly pacing,
headless of that cocoon of love
embracing.
And grief is senseless too.
The outside Spring cannot impinge.
No joy awakes with singing thrush,
or smell of hay, or taste of honey.
It only feels the undigested pain
that’s balled and cramped inside.
And blindly scrabbling from the misery ensuing,
is oblivious of that cocoon of love
renewing.
But there is warmth in that cocoon,
and nourishment. In shrunken world
where language to express is yet unknown,
the healing does begin.
A steady heartbeat, wise and strong
beats out a patient rhythm;
and dropping, dropping,
like dew or quiet tears
the pain dissolves and falls away.
…… We’re growing!
The world of “I” is now too small.
The sounds and senses of earth recall.
A sudden yearning to grow in space
rejects the confines of this tiny place.
It bids replenished soul set forth
with courage, faith and sense of worth;
replace womb's gentle healing pace,
with the challenges of our human race
……….like a new born babe!