In Chests of Flint

‘Ere dark o’ the sun

Is total, the near-solstice sky flares;

There’s dark honey crystal in the cloudscapes,

Moorland heather petals smeared

On damson jam bubbles and lavender blossom.

Greedy anonymities of grey

Will just as soon steal it all away,

Tuck it jealously away in buried chests of flint.

But it will linger, comfortingly,

Behind my eyelids for a goodly while.

It isn’t all about being somebody,

Sometimes it’s just about

Simply noticing the dying light

… and holding it,

And keeping the faith.

For Home … yet.

All around me

Energy is being thrown at tall, bland walls;

Pounding, pumping legs,

Spinning numbers, belts,

Reds, silvers, greys.

And me?

I lie here, barely the right side

Of being able to breathe;

Hearing, faintly, the call of

The wide, wild blue.

Now, I am faithful as all hell –

Trust me, friend,

It has been tested –

Just not ready to

Set out

For home yet.

Pilgrimage Plus One …

Month of the dark-sun day

Is come and gone;

Excitement and pilgrimage are over,

Faith may still exist,

If just a little paler than before.

All hope is left behind.

But I am still surrounded by the masses,

The now-uncomfortable neon buzz

Of people’s expectations hemming me in:

Pressures, white-noise and demands.

My hair-trigger patience, screwed down too tight,

Stretched so fine for too-damned long

In denial deference to their suffocating presence,

Their petty wants, the ignoble trinkets they

Think to need, those truths they believe they do not,

The hunchback minotaur shadows that,

Drip by drip, stain their pale-limbo souls,

the noises they make – insect clamour – without speaking,

While they invade my precious spaces, steal my breaths.

This be new-hook moon territory, and

I wish to be done

With the all the demands they impose.

Perhaps he Knows

Free at last from your sanity routines,

On mornings when ankle deep slow-flow tendrils

Of mist ebb and trace the shadow-and-not spaces

Between ghost-of-winter honey bark beeches,

(Making lies of histories and your blind surges of truth)

I swear that I have seen

The dark shield-and-faith lord step out

On caparison’d, prancing dapple stallion

To meet dawn’s damson-moon light;

Though only sheep and bitter ‘daws

Now populate the ruined traces of his castle keep

And dragons be lost, with unicorns, in time’s jealous chains.

Perhaps he knows this, perhaps not;

But still he rides out for his people –

As he always did!

Heading for the Borders

If it wasn’t rain,

It will be;

Sooner than you know.

 

And if it hasn’t

Risen just yet,

Wait a while,

For it will …

Though it may not be visible

Even to those who have faith.

 

This is snow

Long before it was snow …

And the same snow

Long after it has fallen.

I am where my forebears dreamed

They would never be:

Above the land and looking down;

Heading for the borders of belief.