Mercurius

moss-face

In the forest you are a shrub, a tree, a patch of nettles, a clump of moss growing on a decaying log

 

In the mountains you are a goat, a hare, an eagle, a stream, a lichen-encrusted boulder

 

In the sea you are a shoal of silver fish, a foaming wave, a bubble, a sparkle of light, a scabrous frond of brown seaweed

 

In the city you are a shopping mall, an escalator in a tower block, a pile of rubble in a building site, an empty cigarette packet lying on the pavement, a snatch of conversation blown away by the wind

 

In my house you are a lampshade, the pattern in the wall paper, a shadow in the hall, a discarded jumper on the sofa, a dirty coffee cup, a stray sunbeam, a mote of dust floating in the air, a dead fly on the windowsill

 

Your name is known to men no more, no longer do the hermetic philosophers teach their students the secret of your transformations. No longer knowing your name, or your nature, we seek you ceaselessly without knowing who it is we seek. We seek you in the wrong places – for everywhere we seek you you are not, and yet where we seek you not, there you are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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