An older tide, touched

So they walk; ancient crystals of silicon counting the millennia between their toes. For the moment, they are silent. All that could be said has spun away to echo across time in infrasonic broadcast, pulsing its message  from the inferno of inception to the deep, dark, thundering conclusion. But then:

Where did we come from?

The beginning.

Where are we going?

The end.

Those are our questions too, or would be if we had any place in this way-station.

What lies between?

I don’t know.

What is ‘I’?


Older than the seeds of life carried on meteoric messengers, newer than the glistening surface of the sand after the wave retreats; Alpha and Omega, the dust of a pulverised star and the soft pliable skin of the container of new worlds, exchange dark energy.

Are we alone?


Who else is here?

No one, for now.

The tide rips threads of knowing from each of them; washes them back, tangled, untangled, woven, unpicked, revised and native, to etch form into the unformed and to fracture time.

He touches her hand with lips of alternatives. She caresses his face with fingers of light; fills vacuums with quantum energy; spinning, sparkling with flickering duality. When they kiss, nebulae shatter into gaseous ova streaking out from their birth mother to crash, collide with penetrative violence and become new stars.

And so they walk. Worlds shift, adjust their alignment in the gravity wells of trans dimensional dynamics, and punctuate their endings with the threads of futures.

(c) suzanne conboy-hill 2012

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