Rainsong

I send my children outwards
ripened, luscious, on 12 undeniable steeds
They take with them no heed,
nor guide, no course is fixed upon
They have no prior knowledge gained
but return they will – anon.

Their wanderings, it weathers them,
knead them till they age
and soon they take the shape
of a countless airy ways,
of landmass in tortured heat
riding upon the rhythms
of that always steady beat.

They give their sweet exultations
feeding those who thirst
soothing those who sting,
And on the surface far below
a million wet children laugh unashamedly naked
while the most wintered of the tribesmen
weave and carve a ritual dreamscape sacred.

My mother rolls her joints in moist fertility
and wakes anew great multitudes
so reckless the tranquillity
so brazen is their joy
in dizzy seething splendour they
rise in gratitude.
And so they steadily lift me high
not realising the how or why –
back to where my children lie.