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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

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