INDWELLER (Gwyn ap Nydd)
Tell me the first thing.
.
The first thing is fear.
White, empty, formless, unknown.
That is the first thing.
It boils up in the fist of battle,
In the first and last breath,
The whimper of why,
The sigh of receding pain.
.
And it is alive still, this fear.
I am the white hedge of between.
Death, Winter, Hunter.
These, but not these.
.
In the far North
They say the gods that made creation
Were formed in the gap between things.
The first instant, the impulse, the breeze of doubt,
The white vertigo, the doubt.
What is?
What is this that is?
And is not me?
And who is,
And why?
.
My red-nosed hound that hunts
Is a hunter of reasons.
To know why.
My steeds, ever moving on,
Are clouds.
My purpose is unclear,
My definition is to be,
But not to be located,
Nor known, nor named.
Or do I yearn for that ever after?
To be fixed, and simply loved for that?
Like everything else with a place, a reason,
A name, a history, a cause, a story, a remembering.
.
Without the words, when the words are not enough,
The white mist descends and I am fear, utter and complete.
.
And the forgetting.
The breeze stirs the waters.
The deeps that cannot be measured,
Nor named, nor traversed, nor left behind, nor excluded.
Void, or Soul.
Senseless or beyond sense.
Named I will be diminished.
But diminished, I shall be known.
.
If there is something greater than this.
That is the hunt.
To sift through the clamour.
To contain all colour.
To return to the white empty fullness.
This cliff edge.
This between.
I dwell.
—
simonhlilly 