Wombsea

When i was a little, i had a name for the faucet and flood which filled a hot bathtub while i sat in it: Birth Dreaming Death. What did i feel? A birth, a dream, a death. I'd taken the words from a George MacDonald fairy story. Today, September Twelfth, the breath of autumn blew me under a hot showerhead where I stood in a dreaming daze, almost hypnosis. What did i feel? Hypnotised by WHAT? No hypnotist ever encircled me. But this hot water swarms and wraps me. Waves of hot collide with the chill of Death, and whispers of comfort and stings of pleasure. I stand and sway, racked by surges of sating vulnerability, the nakedness of a newborn with skin exposed to February frost. What did i feel? My mother once folded me in the warmth of her feminine flesh. I was lost in love. I knew no other wind nor heat save her breath and skin. Once more, my body bleeds the truth, and Death and Birth kiss at the Chasm Lip. My blood is taken undersea, or through ice-air, or into fire. Clothless i slip into slicksea as age grows sage over my flesh. Hot chills and cool heat ride me to the brink. Gooseskin shivers in ancient conviction, vindicated by numinous awe. All my body is bare to the breadth and bulge of Wombsea.