Ink Span

Inspired by the birds. One morning they were saying, write yourself free.

We sat in front of the sea, the waves rolling towards us. Our hot coffee sat on the round table. The smell of coffee warmed my Sunday. It was made with love, decorated with a fern leaf that floated, weightless on the top.

While we sat, the odd seagull would fly high up in the clouds above the metallic glitter of the sea, heading east. Their inert, grey bodies looked brave and independent. They flew from right to left as my thoughts gathered for the day.

Sometimes when I look up and see the birds in the sky, I think they say it all in their movement, better than words can.

As our coffees cooled this calm morning, a bold, black cormorant, twice the size of any of the gulls, appeared flying the other way, heading west. It flew alone, just skimming above the sea by the distance of a wingspan.

Its movement was liquid, like black ink running on paper, its dark body flickering on white silver. It flew across the scene at the speed of printing words. Its line went from left to right, along the waves that held a shifting script. Its unique story was saying write, write with the full wingspan of thought. Let your pen fly with ink fit for birds. Let the paper be the stage as your fingers move to an unseen dance.

Write as the pen would like. As your hand agrees, or not; the pen belongs to the paper. The fingers belong to the keyboard. They are all in sync. Forget your name. Forget your school. They are done.

You can always blame your hand. You and I know we are innocent. Your hand that writes is a puppet moved by the wings of your soul. A soul you were born with, just like your parents, something you never chose.

Be, my beautiful friend, be, like you never have.

You have it in you.

Write in honour of the flight of the birds, all about you, all that you feel, all that you learn.

January waves, 2023. By Pipp