Georgia’s search

Georgia is searching for something

She looks under the mushrooms and the may apples in the woods
She looks behind the pots in the kitchen
She looks under the car
She whirls around fast: it might be right behind her!

Over there perhaps? her father suggests. Georgia goes to look..
Can you remember it? her mother asks. Georgia searches through her mind..
It isn’t my little brother John, she says, after looking him over carefully.
And it isn’t chocolate cake, she realizes, a little bit disheartened.

Is it me, asks her mom. Could it be me? Could it? No, says Georgia firmly.
Is it September? wonders Georgia Or the quietness that settles when it snows?
Is it the topmost edge of the neighbor’s hedge?
Is it two o’clock in the morning? Or maybe France? Or the face of a friend?

I am looking for something, says Georgia, very sure. Something.
Is it the sound of a branch snapping in a storm one night a thousand years ago, that fell to the ground right here where I stand?
Or is it a king? Or the song of a wren?
Perhaps I’ll never find it, thinks Georgia, all anxious and panicky.
So is it the taste of peanut butter? Or a touch on my arm? Is it green, or yellow? Is it a chapter in a book that hasn’t yet been written?
Can I have it when you find it? asks John. Georgia really doesn’t know.

But she smiles. I’ll just keep looking, she says.
And she does…
Is it one my freckles, or is it an acorn? Or a cow stepping over a stone?
A dazzle of light through the leaves? Or a frog? Or the space between the table and the chair? Or Somerset?
Or a wave of goodbye, or an angel? Or my instep?
Or that dog, or spaghetti, or sadness, or joy?
Do you know?

Mike O’Kane, Dumfries 2018