Rachael Mead # 23, Pacing the labyrinth

Pacing the labyrinth

It’s strange that so soon you are led towards the centre

then unexpectedly flung to the rim, like life I guess;

just when you think you have everything

in place, you discover the map is upside down.

It’s hard to stay focussed, keep your pace slow

and measured. Soon I’m identifying species of grass,

the ratio of flatweed to turf, assessing the bricklayer’s

craft at laying down edges.  Was he meditative,

a mantra circling in his thoughts? And the mowing…

is the gardener a zen practitioner? What flows

through her mind as she paces the maze,

swinging her Victor on its precise path?

Wrens mock my progress, skittering Euclidean

geometry across this ancient page. I pace, trying

to unwrap my plastic skin of anxieties, timing

my steps to reach enlightenment before dinner.

The labyrinth pulls me in and pushes me

away like tides under a full-bellied moon.

And then…      the centre.  Inevitable but still

somehow satisfying, a tiny accomplishment.

My feet flatten into the grass, a reciprocal acceptance,

the eight tiny topiaries somehow more beautiful

from directly above.  Perhaps this is how the sun feels.

I look up to watch it setting, a graceful diva’s exit.

As I walk away

my steps are slower

and I notice.