Pattern Song

In this place, the wind dances around my ears

apples fall in great baskets from drooping boughs

and blackberries scar my skin 

with the juices of ancestors buried under hill

with horses that galloped cross-country

across Dogger Land

it’s specific, this place

this wind, this peaked thatched roof

the tones of everything

weaving together

are not found anywhere else on earth

and it’s asking me to be

in a certain kind of way

one which gathers apples with kin

one which moves and sways like the buffeting wind

one which casts loops back to the ancients to usher in 

reverence

and a healthy dose of clown-like play

governance is not static 

governance is syncing ourselves to this pattern

to letting my bones sink into the rhythms 

of how this patch of earth

moves and shapes and flows

do my patterns

of harvesting

carry the same shape 

as this land’s?

is my shelter the same weight 

as the squirrel’s?

the same tenacity, the same 

sequence of harmonic resonances

that let bushy-tail survive throughout harsh winter? 

can it be possible to reverberate

inside the chord

of the planet

to remember we reverberate 

inside the chord of the planet

and that every micro-grain of difference

beckons us closer to the divine? 

we can place our fingers deeper into the soil-banks

memory-knowing is held there,

and in the rocks, the root-systems, the pattern of cloud

dancing with wind across sky

we can return to a listening

which understands

how everything moves

or doesn’t 

and let our bodies move

or not

with these patterns

emerging this pattern inside

meetings, money-flows, museum-layouts

all of it, from the kitchen to the great hall

and across the seven oceans 

can reverberate with the ways

earth is already reverberating