AND THIS . . . 

By Michael Mallows

 

There is this; that when I lay there

Unable to move more than my limbs,

Or my eyes, my thoughts, my dreams,

I yearned to cross the bridge between feeling and thinking.

 

Thereís this; when I moved the pictures in my mind,

My thoughts began to follow.

I saw the many walls between thee and me.

I wanted to climb over, crawl round, see through.

 

I felt hemmed in, bound by love and affection,

Yearning to move hither and yon,

Longing to be somewhere else,

Yearning for a sense of direction.

 

And thereís this; when I began to crawl,

I wanted to fly.

I yearned to reach wide enough to touch the edges of the sky.


When I began to walk, I longed to ride.

From here to there - and back again

To here, there, anywhere. Anywhere!

When I was riding, I wanted to soar.

Wanted my dreams to follow as far and as high as my eyes could see

And my heart could feel.

 

And when I could see, I wanted to run.

I wanted to feel the wind on my face

And the raging fire of. . . what?

I didnít know.

I donít know!

I only know I yearned to cross the bridge between longing and knowing.

 

And thereís this; when I thought I knew, I wanted to forget.

When I thought Iíd forgotten, I yearned for recall.

When I tasted freedom I looked for walls.

When I found walls I reached for doors.

When I found doors, I often wanted to close them.

 

And still I dream, and when I lie here

Unwilling to move more than my limbs,

Not ready for giving and too tired for taking.

I yearn to burn the bridges between dreaming and waking.