Monday, 11 April 2016

The Ripples Of Separation

I think sometimes of that baby in the basket,
set loose
from the bank,
cast adrift
upon the  sacred Nile, the hot sun beating
(to the tune of his heart) down upon
his swaddled flesh as his arms and his legs
kicked and clutched empty air where moments
before had been the warmth and security
of his mother’s breast.

The baby too young to understand
anything except being lost to the current
of events he does not comprehend,
loss as heavy as a stone threatening to drag him

never to know that his mother is lost
so that he might be saved…

and I wonder if later
(finding himself in arms that embrace him)
he, unsettled by that water’s uncertain trip,
does not believe, not ever really –
and perhaps this is why as Moses
he could cast aside so much and chance
the words of burning bush, the separation of the river
and the wandering in the desert –
that he deserves those arms and the love held within.

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