Poetry Ungagged Writing

The seed of light and Dan McPhail

It began with the little seed of light – so small, so tiny, it could dance and glint on the pin of a needle. It was alone, and it was not alone, sparkling and dancing in the infinite Now. All of them one, and each one unique, like subatomic snowflakes swirling in one boundless vibrational murmuration, becoming all and everything at any given moment of Now; a swan, a tree, a blade of grass, bending with the weight of a dewdrop; and further still, each particle of light spread deeper and wider, like a delicate lace net caressing the ocean’s currents and tides.

Down in the engineroom, the boilerman covered with grease and sweat from his monotonous hard labour, gently tapped out a tune with his size 12 boots, with his favourite Mills and Boon in one hand, his feet were at one with the pumping pistons. Then, through a crack in the wooden planks above, the little seed of light ventured through to observe this being of rhythm and purpose, tapping a yearning young lover’s sweetheart’s song, so familiar, like the pulse of the little seed of light. The song drove him forward to dredge the depths beneath him in his wee tugboat. While ‘Love… love… love’ was the rhythm of the seed of light, observing him on the edge of his dog-eared book. Effervescent and opaline, it flew to the ear of the boilerman’s reverie, and felt this greasy being’s ebb and flow, pulsing through the tides of his blood. An auld man, dreaming of love, his dirty cap on his napper, with one hand he wiped his juggernaut brow, with the other, he held his beloved book.

Then: Boom! Yes, he heard it, so distinct he looked up to check if he was there. Boom! So warm and delightful, as profound as the crowning of a newborn baby, which carried a whisper for his ears only: “You belong… you belong… you belong.” So real was the song, and so familiar, the auld trawlerman grabbed his cap, threw it into the air and bellowed a laugh like rich brown gravy. For suddenly, in this moment of Now, he knew what he was looking for, with his heavy rope net, dredging the depths. It was the little seed of light, infinite and eternal, the little seed of light which made his auld heart go ‘Boom!’. The little seed of light, who had told him he belonged, right Now, and whenever he cared to, he would be welcomed and invited to join all the little particle seeds of light, to join the infinite vibrational murmuration, in joy and gratitude, and in contribution. To dance, and to be, for ever, as a little, and vital, little seed of light.

The boilerman smiled, and patted his tugboat engine like a beloved old dug. “Aww darlin’, you’re a grand old girl, and you’ve been with me all this time. I’ve been such a numpty. Things are going tae change. Starting – from – Now.”

For Florence June

The next part in this story can be found here In The Spring Of Another Now

© Deborah Sanderson,  March 2020

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