Poetry
THIRST
Stumbling out of a desert into an oasis, a man gives no thought to anything but the tingle of cool fluid upon his lips, running down his throat, over his face.
Not for a moment does he care for anything but the sensation of that sensual feeling of being alive.
It is a moment to slake his thirst, with no regard for the source of this exquisite carnal resurrection of a life he had already expected to lose.
With the soft glow of morning, renewed with a vigour never expected, his mind wanders to other times to recollect and compare this seemingly untainted moment with another slaking.
Gratitude is a short-lived emotion.
He is anxious, with the remorse of an impulsive buyer, to reassure himself that he, the man, has done well here.
One memory is clear: a bright, bubbly spring rising unbidden in the sunlight, lush with promise, from land yet untilled.
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Another: a deep, secret pool of hidden warmth and clarity that desires you covet its dark mystery.
At another time, beside an ocean of clear, transparent water in every shade of blue, a torrent had unexpectedly sprung within the sand dunes.
As the sun rises, he turns to drench his face once more in the depths of this vibrant deluge.
It is each draught – taken long and hard – of this water that is life which sustains a man.
He cares not to recall any other oasis but this one, for it is here that he now satisfies his thirst, his need, his longing.
He remembers the desert no more nor considers he, his debt.
I read this aloud at a poetry reading.
