Aeolus and Nausicaä

A poem about breath, ruin, grace and the winds that carry us forward.

⸻

I met Aeolus one night in China.

He wasn’t holding the sack of God’s breath,

nor did he present himself

as the keeper of the winds.

He was holding a drink

and wearing a big smile.

I asked him where he was coming from.

He passed the drink and said:

“Parthenope.”

⸻

Many moons ahead,

I realised

there was a bag of all the winds,

stitched with unfinished sentences:

questions full of what ifs

and why nots.

Answers I had to give,

to breathe back again,

to find my pace

and purpose.

He made me realise much about my destination,

but even more about the journey.

His winds blew my sails.

And off I went.

Waves of memory and regret, crashing.

Old routines clung to my skin like salt.

Then came the wreck.

The rupture.

And I was cast ashore:

breathless,

naked,

half man, half ruin.

⸻

That’s when I saw her.

Nausicaä.

No palace.

No royal entourage.

Just a gaze,

and a spiritual caress:

as we say in Greek,

a hadi (gentle touch),

that made me remember:

I was not wandering,

I was wounded.

⸻

She didn’t ask for my name.

She offered presence.

Gentle as seafoam,

strong as the pull of the tide.

She didn’t save me.

She saw me,

saw through me!

And in that quiet recognition,

I felt human again.

⸻

Just a man, naked,

standing on a strange shore,

with wind behind him,

and grace before him.

And the echo of Parthenope,

somewhere far,

still singing…