Wild Storms

If they could, they would try
To catagorise, analyse and formalise
Friendship.
Catch it in a butterfly net
And smother it between
Those glass strips
To be squinted at
Through a back-lit lens.

If they could, they would
Wrench it
Like cat hairs prised
From your clothes
Onto a lint roll
Fixed firm.

Or trap it; gluttonously
As plate scrapings
In a plug guard
Drowned. To autopsy
If they could.

They can’t though
And nor can I.
There are no words this
Pen can scratch
To pin down
Friendship absolute
It’s the hole in a hagstone heart
It is the space, the light, the air.
It is, paradoxically,
The nothing…

That, which like oxygen
Is simply…there.

No-one who knows it
Would ever seek to store
Or bottle or trap
Those flairs and flecks
Just out of sight sparks.
They have no care to
Shackle, tether or snare.

And if we try, us artists, in vain,
To etch it down.
Grasping at ways
We’ll fail.

I think … thankfully.

Stay unfettered; friendship wild.
Earth’s pure child.
Storm in the woods
Storming the woods
Thrashing recklessly keeping
Head, heart, lungs every cell alive.
Wild storm in the woods
That which will not be tamed
Nor civilised or subdued.
Storm in the woods
Friendship absolute;
The one in infinity
Undefinable truth.