journeys we start

poetry is badly written prose
when sentences fail
and our dreams compose
the spaces between the dark
and silence
in a language
we have yet to learn
the first steps
in a childhood dance
where words
step on others’ toes
by chance
No orchestra plays
But birds stretch
their wings
candles flicker
and hearts would sing
a feather falls
beneath their feet
and ink drops
mark the place
where they meet.

Dr T.P. Wilkinson writes, teaches History and English, directs theatre and coaches cricket between the cradles of Heine and Saramago. He is also the author of Church Clothes, Land, Mission and the End of Apartheid in South Africa. Read other articles by T.P..