Turning

That place
ingrained in skin, cross-
grained in heart I am
now so far removed from yet
still it
strengthens to lance me
annoyingly, sparks
memories into blazes I cannot
turn to extinguish.

The patchwork floor of it -
that world sewn-in with
colour and care moulded
me, jaded you rigid
and glad to leave.  Such
fear I lived with - the
very thing I tried to
prevent happened
anyway.

A trial of ills, sore
fingers, of gleeful face
spitting and ripping of
cloths carefully sewn.  I
am calm now, it fades to a
colourlessness I
welcome - these days
I need white
to survive.

I was spent in that
sewing and tending of
cloths.  You were old and
soiled, mid-winter man -
I deny your living spark
power to strike my time.
I know the being
you became, cold man
I pity you.

My year has turned to
spring, to green living,
to stitching for myself
and staying warm, well 
and clean.  You live on
among us, I can tell, I 
can feel you somewhere but
your weight was unbalanced
then, is now, and ever shall be.

Amen.

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