The Volcano

Today I spoke to the volcano 
about fear, and clean air, 
about fertile dust that contains 
the lust for life but not the rain 
that will set that lust alight. 

I spoke about future years, 
about life and death 
and days yet to come, 
about the moon and blinding sun,
geckos and african squirrels 
and the fear of high places.

I shouted my greeting to the volcano 
and he answered me in the voice of 
my son, my daughter, my wife, 
my mother, my father, myself, 
the voices of dead generations 
and generations unborn. 

I enquired about lizards 
and the hazards, of desert travel, 
about desicated crowns of thorns 
and electric cars, falling mountains 
and shooting stars. 
I asked him about dhows and goats 
and camel routes. Spice markets, 
slave markets and Spanish pirates. 

He spoke in a whisper of deep sea 
and cold places, mountain faces 
and races to the top. He whispered 
of heat and aching and breaking 
through, 
spewing life above the cold water.

He whispered of building, 
filling the ocean with his spirit, 
of lava and magma. 
He whispered about continental shelves, 
of shifting and uplifting 
and finally of great heat 
and four thousand years of sleep.

Today I spoke to the volcano 
about life, and about death 
and about things to happen yet 
and he whispered his answer 
from deep within the earth.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

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