Layers of silt.
The earth labours. I hear the scream of rock on rock. I feel the flood of water and mud. I see death in the waters.
People, loud, painful; hurt and doing hurt. Foolish and dirty and weak. Building in the river plains, driven by grim necessity and greed and adventure and joy. Men and women, ignorant, assertive, unknowing. The pain in my heart as they make more and more suffering. And rain, warm, insistent, following its own rules, and the river rising, rising.
A pathetic few boats, and in them men and women whom I love, and in the waters, more I love, and screams, and mud and death. Silt settles over homes, over farm animals, and wild beasts, over men and women and children.
Silt in layers.
Unbearable pain and miraculous rescue are held in the memory. A pattern of wrong, and death and renewal, reworked and reinvented.
Screams again, and terrible wrong, and there, in Babylon, people whose minds are thrust open by new memories, and old thoughts, and other people’s stories.
The waters of stories, and the silt of memory.
Finally someone writing, writing, and I beg: ‘Put it all in. Put the wickedness and the pain and screaming, and that I love despite it.’ A new layer of understanding, a pathetic boat in the water. And I look and I see the rainbow, transformed. I see my love arch out over all creation without condition.
Layers of silt. I settle in them.