as the brick of the afternoon stores the rose heat of the journey
as the rose buds a green room to breathe
and the blossoms like wind
as the thinning birches whisper their silver stories of the wind
to the urgent
in the trucks
as the leaves of the hedge store the light
that the moment thought had lost
as the nest of her wrist beats like the chest of a wren in the turning air
as the chorus of the earth find their eyes in the sky
and unwrap them to each other in the teaming dark
hold everything dear
the calligraphy of birds across the morning
the million hands of the axe, the soft hand of the earth
one step of time
the broken teeth of tribes and their long place
steppe-scattered and together
clay's small, surviving handle, the near ghost of a jug
carrying itself towards us through the soil
the pledge of offered arms, the single sheet that is our common walking
the map of the palm held
in a knot
but given as a torch
hold everything dear
the paths they make towards us and how far we open towards them
the justice of grass that unravels palaces but shelters the songs of the searching
the vessel that names the waves, the jug of this life,
as it fills with the days
as it sinks to become what it loves
memory that grows into a shape the tree always knew as a seed
the words
the bread
the child who reaches for the truths beyond the door
the yearning to begin again together
animals keen inside the parliament of the world
the people in the room the people in the street the people
hold everything dear
for John Berger
by Gareth Evans
19th May 2005
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