Mud-A Poem

Sometimes, to find home, 
You have to leave a home,
And sometimes, to find poetry, 
You have to step away
From all pens and papers and notes screens. 
You have to go somewhere and find someplace  
Where you feel no word has ever settled, 
And there, with splintered hands, 
After being poked by twigs, 
Feeling damp soak through your shoes,
Standing still, with each breath you owe
Inescapable, all coming back at once 
To your flee dreaming lungs, 
Standing still, with all the warmth you built 
Gone at once, the sweat all over you gone cold
Your body now a mould infested non-home,  
Standing still, you’ll realise that it’s impossible 
To not hear the ground gently whispering, 
That wet, muddy ground you’re sick of slipping in,
That the only thing that’s really difficult 
Is giving in to listening.

Yes, it stains at first touch, 
And stays in the ridges of your shoes till after 
You’ve navigated it’s tiresome, questioning terrain: 
Here is a place where you have to think, 
Where each step is made consequential, 
Where to run is only to slip, to fall, 
Where to walk is to accept
Where we are
Where we can go
And to still move
Despite all these limitations
No matter all the mess 
We will make and take. 
Whenever you get home 
Whenever you wipe your shoes
You have forgiven:
Don't abandon people too easily 
Who can walk through life without being stained?
Next time you walk
The same ground will say something else
Perhaps about the dangers
Of walking blindly down unthought paths.
Such is poetry.

The Red Model-Rene Margitte, 1934