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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Perhaps no one is a story.
The past is myth,
a brass cymbal striking time,
and we open like petals,
come on the street like birds,
newly formed,
and rise like hawks from the moment,
with false histories.
Perhaps that is our story,
no story.

It is the sound of the world
vibrating in the valleys,
a new song,
each of us,
given to ourselves as a gift,
given to each other to find.
If you doubt that you belong
to the moment,
that the echo of the earth
rises in you,
who has not before a mirror said,
this has gone before,
this has happened.

I have been in this place,
or gone on that journey,
then in the chamber of your new heart,
there is an old ache.
In your new soul,
an ancient devotion,
in words that come to you
jumping from the wind,
a refrain,
written on the page of an empty diary,
that seems full.
And we fall in love
all over again,
time after time,
never having existed before.

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