The Chasm and Cauldron
By Leanne Dunlop
Like a black cauldron of old,
Hanging limp o’er the fire.
The stew simmers inside –
Full of everything, new and undesired.
The churning of the well-worn wooden spoon,
Upsets and unravels the emotions
As the pot of rich complexity,
Pervades the atmosphere now with aroma.
Aroma, yes, but not all pleasantness,
The mixed and churned up thick substance,
Now liquid-like for able consumption.
But: I distance myself from the cauldron’s contents,
As the chasm widens amidst my denial.
We are capable of much,
Much more than we know.
Of substance and splendour; purpose and pain.
