Ritual

Ritual

 

To my Valentine, more, Teacher . . .



When I go to that end, of land, the sea, do you know what I am going to do? Something done, for me, first, because I love you so? I am going to write you a long letter. A letter, with all the blackness of ink, in my heart remaining. I will pile a fire high with driftwood, dragged dripping from the Wash, out of the salty darkness.



For starters, some meditation; forty-four seconds, should just about do it. In that letter many an Elizabethan descriptive insult penned. And yes, even less nicely, at least uttered, if not finally directed, curses. Turning, dancing around, an air turned blue and seeing red in my transforming, rebirthing fire.



Because there is a part in me to be expunged. Any, any . . . remaining; bring out your dead waiting, anger, resentment, bile, pity. Precisely, gathered and lanced; gobbed out with force of a February storm, on the beach.



Hurtle down that sheer angry cliff of paper, my fall of words and awry perceptions. It’s gonna be all, in love, in there, strangely, mysteriously.



I do give a fuck, but I know not how. But it will be the terror, at least, of my underworld. All, so that I may love, outside, again, better, truer.



And then I will put my stamp on it, firmly closing, that sweated missive. It will be sent, flaming, skyward, to you, for me. Officiating my guides, your spirits (brief them well!!) and a drop of petrol, just for bad measure. Butt before it will have been thoroughly grounded, earthed, added a little good soiling, sharp scratchy sand, maybe a bit of rotting fish carcase, if that’s on offer that evening.



Then as I dance around the fire, gleefully, years and tears running down my cheeks will I raze with it, without, a scream. Manifest enough in that to raise, to the skies eleven thousand sleeping feathers, on before resting wings.



Finally, thoroughly heart and body warmed by all energetically, burned by love, with you, will I carry the still pulsing ashes. Down to that endlessly moving resting place between seabed, wavetop and moon scudded.



All topped off with a plunge, for my dear sex-starved body, in the icy North Sea (likely, more screaming!). Followed by baked spuds, lightly steamed kale on gluten-free crispbreads, washed down with a pint, of seawater (just in case there is any last bile, in there, for you).

 

Likely I will sit back then, on that coast, facing over Doggerland, contemplate, my now empty bowl. That and know a way, I hope; that healing garden near the sea.

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