I don’t know why they call it ‘the passion?”
I don’t remember passion
Just a quickening of the heart
A sense of floating when he held my gaze
The sweet warmth of a sigh
Soft against my cheek
A sudden possession of knowledge
I couldn’t fully comprehend.
Your father’s voice speaking wisdom-
I connected with the voice
But not the words.
“What did he say?”
He tried so hard to impress upon me
I understood that much.
Overwhelmed by his authority.
I see more clearly now
I feel as keenly the loss,
A raw, biting sense
A part of the horizon
A half-told story.
As if someone had stolen a friendship
And hidden it deep in some hillside
And all my years spent searching
An unquenchable thirst, a creature without form
Smelling it, sensing its nearness.
Called to it, on the wind, in my dreams
Longing to give flesh to the bones.
For me something far more tender.
I have tried to forget, numb the gnawing in my soul.
I know we hear the same music
And rise to the same sky
But I can’t find you.
I don’t know where the bodies are buried.
I would dig with my bare hands to ease this suffering
Nothing fills the space you left, it longs for fulfillment.
What did you see in me that scared you,
You looked in the mirror and saw? Yourself?
Perhaps this Passion they speak of,
I walk the earth heavy with emptiness
And l consider this passion,
A bitter burden to have been given so young.
I hear you in birdsong, in salt cresting waves
I reach out to touch you in the hum of city traffic
Life pulsing all grimy and busy about me.
And in the cool, polished shade of village halls
I bow my head listening for your footfall.
The sheep calling their lambs away pity me as l pass
Cattle lying on spring grass lazily study my silent grief
Contemptuous of my calling, as l labour through thicket
Across the quiet woodlands along the path of deer and fox.
Standing on hillsides, staring down horizons
Wondering why you do not come.
Wondering how such passion
Can be redeemed, a thing so gentle, so meek
So long ago.
I have even forgotten you, sometimes
Until waking in some heat of memory, l almost find you.
I don’t know why they call it ‘the passion’
But l only look now for some redemption
To float once more in your gaze
And be lifted again.
© JL Brain 2017