to Johnny Flynn, "The Wrote and The Writ"

The snow was casting weird shadows today against an overcast sky. A holy sky, I watch skiers carefully glide down the mountain, like pastors reading through a worship book for a new parish. And what an alter they worship on. A skyward image that bellows and howls, a pillar of fire.

There is a writing and a carving in the snow and ice. Things that a wiser man could decipher, but I can’t. I look out of a window, cold and shivering, my mind elsewhere.

To green pastures and Australia I think of, the swirl of Dublin’s emerald grass mixed with an open sky. A faintly picking song reminds me of that place, but not a memory I suppose, more of a premonition, something that hasn’t been written, but will be wrote.

(song restart)

I picture us going there, side by side like walking up an alter. A communion we both make, but in desperate places, different minds. We cannot speak in tongues yet, and it is obvious, for our connection was lost, and our babel was broken a few nights ago. We spoke the same language and words, but now there is a separation, a type of schism or an excommunication. Ex-communication, the process of rejecting a communion, a unity. We didn't reject it, perhaps I just missed the next progression, You were reciting a hymn and I forgot the melody, and now I can't find the time again.