Fugue

There is a sadness
found in a cavity between the soft body
and the smudged edges of the soul.
Some believe it ought not be there,
that it is best scrubbed clean and made nice.
It is thought peacefulness and beautiful things
should adorn that secret place.

But this is the heart, where sorrow goes.
It is the repository when wounds are shared
and where spilt grief is taken to one’s self.
The heaviness of the other’s injustices resides there,
a place of aching where tears are formed.
It is what is left when there has been a reaching out
a holding of his shoulder and an insistence of hope in
painfulness.

Words do not reach this place of sighing.
Only the fugue with its massage, ebb and flow,
the precision weaving of maths, mastery and mystery.
There is a healing in this music, a binding together of precious
broken hurts and a coming home to the body.

Tim Clapton

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