The Key: A poem for the Spring

Key. 

A sword caressing not cutting. 

Never transgressing.

Travelling only to the void it was created to enter into. 

With respect unwavering.

Clink.

An unfolding, encouraging some mechanism to lift itself,

others to remain in place. 

Flame. 

Of the smith’s forge,

Enlivened by the breath of the bellows,

like a great wind sweeping from the north. 

It’s born.

Transmuted first into metal from a cold hard lump.

Ting.

Beaten into form. 

It’s only form, lest it end up in the scrap to be reheated,

crafted to a horseshoe, a buckle or a sword.

Lock.

Driving one place to depart from another, 

Secluding what lies within,

Like the tempest of the great sea, 

Keeping those on it’s surface at bay.

What lies beneath where neither the sun nor moon penetrate. 

Kept.

The key sinks into the waters.

Hiss.

It’s white heat softens through a red glow to a dulled blue grey. 

Clunk.

No words for their meeting. 

The north and south winds coalesce. 

Once hidden,

Two lovers,

A slow trickling breeze beyond the threshold, 

Carries a whisper of the chance beyond

Inspired by conversations with my loved ones, a meeting with the star Sirius on driving home last night, and the courting of two pairs of birds. Peregrines above the feilds in Andreas, and Magpies in Old Kirk Braddan Cemetery.