The Fault Line

The Fault Line My son sent me a message from the Grand Canyon and a boyo he is born and raised in the Welsh country side where the coast is rugged and and bards sing another tune to life’s tried pleasures and tribulations He was a teeny weedy guy when he was little one of a pentagon of kids triplets in the middle and Moz wondered would he grow tall and big now his muscles sprout as surrounds of a kind sensitive core of little fault For me not to say what imperfections he sports I suppose they are much smaller than my rocky cracks and whacky snags split off from the world and so Moz weathered storms of earth quaking’s slipped rifts of parental estrangement When disunity beckoned sinkholes parted the quick sand dissolved passing union the little guy stood tall took no sides threw no mud prospected no faults crafted no victim’s narration searched no gold dust in vain did not judge over all Sometimes we stand on a fault line straight through the middle of hearts engulfed in a shibboleth and all we can do is cling on to the cliff face jump across to the far side hope for the best and keep our side of the canyon clean and serene When nature and nurture eats away the foundation the solid soil crumbles and oblivion calls we can resist to join in the chorus can heal the disparate cacophony by leaving discernment and reflection to where they belong as to build bridges and love 23th November 2016