Without

This is a night to call on

The neglected-too-long,

Two faced god;

Distant doorways time,

Wandering with the wide-sky

As a hat, deep dark and

Glamourous with frost-pricked stars

That will refuse to disclose the

Futures only they can know.

Walking on the tireless long legs of Memory,

Carrying my weightless ghosts around

The rainbow’d edges of the friendship nation:

Territory with secrets,

Without hiding places,

Without borders.

Forbidden

With forbidden love we crafted

High, deep skies of darkest honey;

Peopled them with banks of

Angel-bright, crystal stars

And  firesnake fables.

We made for ourselves

A warm, full moon

And sang the silence song.

But though these fictions,

Intense and all consuming

We both knew two things:

That they were wrong …

And bound to fail.

 

Be Sure

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Be certain-sure that the full

Treasure-moon also rises; that

elven-blued stars wing across autumn skies

In the rich fairy lands; the realms we

May be lucky enough to glimpse

Only behind our eyelids;

Beyond our fragile, tip-toe dreams.

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Drops

             I
From the spinning
Circles that cross
Heaven and Hell,
Down the skies,
Between the branches,
The iron routes,
Across the leaves,
Between the rocks,
The weeds and brick dust;
Un-noticed they
Fall and run:
The too-casual
Drops of history.

  II
This is the placid hour
Of the fumble-flying moths.
 Day’s-eye stars are closing;
The honeybee’s purple
Pincushion, nectar and pollen palace
seaholly

Is become medieval slate mace.
Clusters of early autumn berries
Constellation-spin above:
Monochrome peace
Has come to visit.

23/8/2013

Change Doesn’t Always Come on a Wind.

Special. Special somehow. A special place. And moment. Not a geographical place; not exactly though location be important. A little left of lonely, drawing close to harmony, somewhere short of melancholy, though it must be close. A place of still air, promise, potential. Change doesn’t always come on the wind.
Lie back in the chair. Unusual view. The view from a position as if lying down. A view between the branches, past the sap-conduit snakework branches – from this perspective not having height as a dimension – the pattern becomes a god-doodled page in a road atlas. Emphasis switches between seeing the branches and seeing the spaces between the branches, coated islands of sky. The view between dinosaur track laburnum leaves, filled with end-of-summer sugars.
The silver chair back cold jumps into the neck, sharp and sudden in the evening warmth. It’s metal; not painful, just not ten-out-of-ten comfortable in this position.
Look up. Up where the soul-smoke travels. Through tranquil, unresisting air.  Miles of it. So many of me, standing upon one another’s shoulders, reaching at the drifting vagabond clouds. I am a child again, half believing that the clouds stay still, their apparent motion the illusion created by then movement of the earth: evidence that the earth is spinning. I grin inside, at the memory. The certainty I had.
Playthings of the wind and sun sprites, these clouds. Inviting, tempting observers to see shapes, patterns, to attempt to divine the future, the past from what is not actually there.
They are liars too, these clouds, showing all the colours they do not have, wearing them like accessories. Pink, rose, lavender, grey, old-bruise yellows and dead-moss greens.
Beyond the jester-clouds to the blue-that-isn’t blue. The ugly, intrusive sound of an invisible heavy plane tractoring freight – soon gone, followed by its echoes, passing the space that had earlier been filled with the commuter conversations – query,  query,  query – of gabble gaggle geese, a loosely structured formation, mother and nine sisters, homeward bound in a lazy, well fed arc. Now filled with swooping, cutlass winged swallows, hawking insects, scrawling their goodbyes in graceful curves and rapid as blink glides.
The blue lie. So hard to believe that it’s rue I don’t believe it all of the time: that the whole celestial mechanism of gears and circus mechanisms of space, planets, the milky Way, stars and all are there but cannot be seen until the sun drops below the horizon. Features that appear to come into the eye one at a time.
(I used to think that the sky-with-sun was blue, that the sky-with-moon-and-stars was black. It explained all of the facts known to me conveniently … but I never worked out where the line was that separated one sky from the other, or why I had never seen that line.)
Then I remember, as I’m thinking on this faith-puzzle, the eclipse that I have see. The wonderfully eerie stillness that creeps across the face of the earth, across harvest fields, across pine forest, across car parks. The way that birds land, as if confused, and stop singing, becoming spellbound and silent. And, as the sun is blanked out, one disc sliding over another, the coincidence that the two, moon and sun are apparently the same size a marvel of nature and maths making both the same size … and the shy stars leaping into view, reassuring and beautiful.
14/8/2012