to return from the road trip across the US
to London, with familiar mews, crescents and turns,
yet there are more streets than i can count.
to show one beast to another,
who did not walk here for three decades.
much has changed in the docks, in the City, in everywhere,
but not the darkroom in St Martin-in-the-Fields’ crypt.
not enough time to sit down with friends,
not enough time to slip into forgetting,
into processing the photographs,
into remembering what it was like just moments ago.
faces and places from across the pond,
to keep in mind when proceeding East –
Poland, Ukraine, Belarus, Russia.
does there exist a toolbox? a recipe? a book of guidelines?
of how to find a kindred spirit, friend, traveler, lover and confidant?
maybe there is one? in the folds of the desert rocks? or on the forest floor?
wrapped in the tunic of old postcards, photos and manuscripts.
after a search lasting a quarter-century,
after all,
there exists.
love, trust and forgiveness,
the word order changes,
yet those three remain in the rings of the tree.
i am starting my 40th year tomorrow.
40 years in the desert is the jewish tale,
yet it’s so appealing and teasing
to think that i am on my way out.
free of darkness,
free of sadness,
free of pain and rage.
for what happened to me,
to my ancestors and their friends,
to many others around and away.
i found some riches in love,
taken for a ride of 8000 miles,
across the land of the free
and the home of the brave.
to find meaning through loss,
fill the cup with pine cones and stones.
i might not be entirely free, true,
but it might also be the beginning.