I have seen many
Such as he;
(More clown than ringmaster),
Loud voice that
Carries no authority.
Yet he will say,
He has borne the sword
From cold fields
To these strewn-with-paper tiles.
I am, perhaps, too used to keeping
Rough-touch ropes tight around
Memories that would otherwise
Have me vulnerable, weeping, cold.
Too used to resisting the
To watching too,
Too many young people
Take their too-soon leaves.
When we cross the line –
One that clearly was never there –
A new Adam awaits:
Smartly dressed – en vogue –
Voice as stunning clear
As dawn-mountain dew.
Wisdoms, like queens, kings and shadows
Move gracefully on,
Sometimes holding the sounds of bells
Or furious chemical-coloured works-of-fire,
Roll by without sentence.
Where went he then,
This big-hearted troubadour knight?
Where went he in the times he was away?
Away from us, our tribe, our ken?
Which astral, other-world spaces did he ride,
This minstrel warrior
Who wrote the starlight words,
Stories of elf and rainbow worlds; Continue reading