A poem for Tuesday

I didn't buy a metropass for April, which means I'm back to walking to work. In winter, I'm all about getting to my destination the quickest way possible and minimizing encounters with ice. So it's a sudden freedom to amble and take detours and go down side streets. To not bother keeping an eye on the path or planting each foot with deliberate caution.

I am a walker. I've always been happiest when my days incorporate long walks naturally, around the Head at home, or my favourite work walk that took me from Ballsbridge to Ranelagh by way of Herbert Park, though sometimes down Raglan Road (detour though it was) just to walk accompanied by that song. Luke Kelly's epic timbre.

And I realize now that this has always been what I wanted; days with such slow and loose movement. I might as well be on the Head again, watching gulls eddy and swirl, feeling the pulling boom of the tide below. I might as well be in the cove about to cast myself out into the salty heave. My mind can go to such places.

This is by Mary Oliver.

The Sea
Stroke by
     stroke my
       body remembers that life and cries for
             the lost parts of itself—
fins, gills
     opening like flowers into
       the flesh—my legs
             want to lock and become
one muscle, I swear I know
     just what the blue-gray scales
             the rest of me would
feel like!
     paradise! Sprawled
       in that motherlap,
             in that dreamhouse
of salt and exercise,
     what a spillage
       of nostalgia pleads
             from the very bones! how
they long to give up the long trek
     inland, the brittle
       beauty of understanding,
             and dive,
and simply
     become again a flaming body
       of blind feeling
             sleeking along
in the luminous roughage of the sea's body,
       like victory inside that
             insucking genesis, that
roaring flamboyance, that
       beginning and
             conclusion of our own.
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