On Longing

In the garden tonight, I breathe heady scents that
act as a portal to a world I once danced with
My senses keening, I long to be wolf-like
and to gulp great lungfuls of air.
My bones hunger for the hunt, for slipping
my belly through the tall grasses. And at once
I am flooded with memories
– or a dream? – of ecstatic dances
and drumbeats that thunder my womb.
Shamans murmur to the spirits
of plants and I soar over hills, valleys, trees –
aware of the slithering of the snake; sensing
the awkward gait of crow. I listen to stories
of trees, rivers, stones, flanked
by shadows that dart and stalk, unfettered.
The vision recedes and
I find myself bathed in the
majesty of silence

Later I dream I am back in the garden
Caged like a bird yet unable to sing

© 2011. Sarah Horne. All Rights Reserved.

Author: Story

Writer, occasional artist, hippie, Reiki healer and lover of nature. I love the absurd, the strange, the beautiful, the sublime. I love what happens when humans allow themselves to be Real, when the light pours through the cracks. I'm a fan of Wabi-sabi, imagination, candlelight, stars, humour, magic. I love to read stories that break down barriers, reminding us of the sheer magic of simply being alive. If I can ever touch anyone through my writing, I am deeply grateful to be able to do so, because to me, the act of writing alone isn't complete until it's been read. View all posts by Story