IN ALL THINGS I DWELL

When the Culdees sat  
by the standing stone,
where the sidhe  
was the chosen home,
at the top of a  
rugged mountain peak,
deep in the valley  
where insects speak,
a man travelled
into a future time
recreating himself  
in a poets’ rhyme.
 
It was long ago, when  
the world was new,
with fewer choices  
of what to do,
this man sat gazing  
in his chair,
he wasn't here,  
he wasn't there,
he’d gone to the  
place of in between
where imaginary  
thoughts can be seen.
he sat for hours.
 
Until he thought  
to lie down flat,
take himself from  
where he sat,
to a comfortable  
position on the floor,
in total darkness,  
he closed the door,
listened to leaves  
in the gusting breeze,
heard crashing waves  
from pounding seas,
smelt fragrant flowers.
 
He sat for hours,
he sat for days,
carefully considering
different ways
to take himself  
from here to there,
without having  
to leave his chair,
he saw himself  
in another place
with different clothes,
a different face.
 
The Culdees stood  
by the sacred stones,
the Tuatha Dé Danann
prepared new homes,
while the ocean  
carried a vibrating scream,
“I Am! As you are,  
I flow like the stream,
I fall with the tide,  
I rise with the swell
I drift on the breeze,  
in all things I dwell!”
 
Morganpoet