I dream of a barren urban strand beneath a waterless sky. Through torn fences and empty yards, they appear. One by one, holding candles to the sun. Light the clouds on fire.
They have claimed this place as a second chance. They are the architects. They speak to me of history’s long funnel of memory. The stories awaiting renewal behind boarded windows. They are gods of scratch holding a near and precious future in their able hands.
They say, ‘and here is where your story begins’.
So I follow them across a grid of streets to an abandoned cathedral where no one prays, hop-scotched iron bars crisscross below roofless buildings. Ragged curtains billow; ghosts on stage in a parking lot garage. Inside a wrecked grocery store, a tree has broken through the foundation and reaches defiantly upwards. We come to a great room with a mirrored wall; distant figures reflected.
‘And these are the days to treasure’.
I watch as the figures move towards me aware that my time with them will be all too brief. Then, as I search for an exit I turn realizing that the gods have left me here. They have gone to pour over blueprints. Gone to gather tools. To find their compass.
Outside the sky is ablaze with both hope and despair. I see the world dying and being reborn. The sparse and tiny cells of the city are restructuring, dividing and duplicating and I feel a cool wind blow through the open window, touching the dream as it swirls and falls into misty images and I am moving through its hazy layers to the surface, upwards towards consciousness, upwards towards this new sun while the clouds fall as embers at my feet.
‘This New Sun’, revised version of work published in the collection ‘At Love’s Altar’, Labello Press (c)2020
(c)2022 Deborah McMenamy
All rights reserved.