Kita Air

The play with water, like lyrical bathing.  A forever stored memory washes up as the feet get wet.  I am back in infant school, pouring water through wheels, watching them spit liquid and spin like Catherine’s sphere.  I remember the vast pool where all the flows fall in.  Green aprons drenched, cheeks flushed, gurgling outwards at the revelation of discovery.

There, a degraded past in the now, comes and lives in the motions of washing and bathing in my equatorial escape.  I am a child again, and always so it seems.  The point at which I can no longer seem to be impressed, I am at my most impressionable.  The rawness of age is an awareness of how young we are.  All part of the experiment.

Taps drip busily and the  sink is filled.  The bucketing movement is finished, the past shifts away.  I change, and clean, and move outside, to where there is a day freshening.  Rainclouds sidle across the sky, and I remember – we are water.

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