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12/08/2019 / Harry Browne

Ever Moving Clay by Cheryl Vail

The weather didn’t know what it wanted to be today
neither did I – moving from under sunny shawl to cloak of grey
buffeted by gust of wind, until standstill, the man on the corner
proselytising his time away, asks me who I am
in between raindrop and sunbeam, rainbow arching over the frantic weekend scene
I respond, I’ll not know who I am until I die.
we are not fixed points, we are ever moving clay
not kiln fired, taut, or staid
we shape and reform, are torn, bent, rent apart
then remade in the guise resembling what we might eventually be
to the street preacher as he gapes at me, I say
You are not the self that you are, that you will always be,
until you stand looking Chiron in the face, coin in hand
glancing back over your shoulder, you see who you were
as the remnant body becomes ember then ash.
No, I’m as changeable as the weather
multiple women in one day
sometimes in the rain, sometimes a sun ray

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