I am song

I am that wild thing that races with the wind flowing in my mane.

I have spit out the bit. I have shaken off the bridle.

I cannot be harnessed by mundane punctuation grammar structure and syntax.

I’m the laughter in a child’s eyes, I’m the wing in the bird’s flight, I’m the cloud in the sky – I’ve broken free from earth’s gravid gravity.

I’m the chaos of erupting lava. I am the abstract with rainbow colours splashed with mad abandon.

I am music without harmony. I am the incongruity in nature’s wanton.

I am the river in spate that obeys no binding boundaries. I gush. I rush. I break my banks.

And spill all over. Swirling. Gouging. Devouring everything in my path.

I am disorder. I am revelry. I am the rejoice in the birds’ chorus. I am the undomesticated wild. I am the child of liberation. I am celebration.

Not for me the well ordered gardens of governed minds with neatly trimmed hedges. Give me weeds. Give me gorse. Give me thickets. Give me undergrowths where creatures wriggle and struggle.

I am the voice that blunders in creation. I am the burst in the star’s birth. I am the lucent remnant in a celestial death. I am the cosmos whose patterns cannot be contained. I am form without form. I am song.