Preparations For Flight

I am steadying, readying myself. Packing and planning and listing and wishing and dreaming and organising and sorting and borrowing and counting and panicking and singing and putting aside and casting off and buying up and thinking and tuning out and readying. I am on the brink. I bend my knees and practise springing up into my lift off position, arms flung up and away from my stone body. I am about to fly. Flying is in my nature. To depart. To journey on. My gypsy soul will not stay put or put up or shut down. Adventure waits. She bats her lush lids at me enticingly. My flight companion calling me up and away. I do not want to leave this place. This space where we have nested in this self made stillness. Stay here. I will return. I will bring wide stories and breaths breathed in foreign airs. I will bring pictures with words, of people and places, rivers, mountains, forests and cathedrals. I will return with pirate booty to share and savour. It is a wonder that stone can fly, but this bone bag will rattling up a run way and clank into flight, suddenly weightless. A whisp of soul, searching the blue yonder. Speak to my toes when I return and let them tell you all the soils they have kissed. Listen to my hands recall the struggle to communicate with other tongues. I must take little, so there is a space, an opening to hold the treasures I will bring home. I take you with me. You are the anchor that gently holds my kite string. I will soar the wide blue dome, but bring me home, bring me home to your rich depths, your warmth hearth.