Ode: Jordan Valley
Have you seen the Jordan Valley? The air is filled with mountains and seas, the reservoir tells of a once great river. The curving streets are lined with trees and people live in shining blocks, the hills appear to grow from nowhere surrounded by life everywhere.
Have you found the Jordan Valley? It’s not too hard to find, though a little out of the way for most, rural is not its mind. Inaccessible, its not, least not to the working class. There’s only one ivory tower, but that might not be built to last. Those who call for its destruction are noble but wielding bombs, however the valley smiles in kind, for you can’t attack what you can’t find.
There is anger in the Jordan Valley. Do the holy sites remind us to love our neighbour, or do they force us to stray further. Once in a storm, the shield of a catholic school flew away. How many villagers saw the shield that day? What did it mean, if a natural disaster could mean, when the windows of the buildings broke revealing the cramped hearts within?
Will you visit the Jordan Valley? It’s as deep as the rift between its residents and might not be long to fare. The poor, the rich, the policeman, the youth rub shoulders chasing buses. There are no trains or planes and for many years no blame but as life begins to change, how will the Jordan valley?
Will its people run away in a great exodus, or will they be here to stay?
Why is the python here and what are the crows saying? In their foreign mutterings and deep stares, it’s almost as though they are aware of your internal musings. The python returns its attention to you, staring into your eyes. Is it insulted? Is it aware of your internal musings. It slithers up the staircase, flaking more and more paint as it goes. Further and further up the spiral staircase it goes until it reaches the top windows where it rests on a ledge. Watching the python you realize that the ceiling is not iron, nor are the walls. The sides of the ceiling jut inward just slightly, a European design - or perhaps art-deco.
The crows, aware that their leader has moved, flap their wings in unison and follow in kind. The wind from their wings chip off more of the already flaking paint layer revealing an intricate design just below the current layer of bland modern red. Spirals of greens, mosaics of brown, a palimpsest in the most traditional, and metaphorical, sense of the world.
The sunlight glints one last time on the wings of the crows, those still flying upward camouflage against the newly revealed tapestry. A moment later, the clouds return to block the sun. The crows return to black and so does the wall. Will you see the policeman, the protestor, the villager and the salary man run together to catch the same bus to the same train station?