Fridays seem like a fine day for a bit of poetry, a few words to start your weekend, your sabbath. Here is a sabbath gift from our friend
Karen in Tennessee...
The Moment
by Margaret Atwood
(from Morning in the Burned House)
The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,
is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.
No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.
Fridays seem like a fine day for a bit of poetry, a few words to start your weekend, your sabbath. Here is a sabbath gift from our friend Karen in Tennessee...
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