Peter (a birthday gift)
having not met in this reality
knowing him only by words
and the images captured
like still painted souls
in the magic box
I am free to dress him
in whatever thought
captures, as still life
in my bag of words.
scent of wind and heather
precedes the form as it coalesces
from the fog of imagery
rough coat of tweed
in blues and browns
carries the breath of gods
from distant times
the song of the carders
the slap of the shuttle
as it wends its singular way
between the fibres upon the loom.
he fills a room with presence
hilarities tumble across the threshold
laughter greets all gathered there
and mystery follows close behind
tagging at his coat tails
impatient to be etched across
white sheets of memory
yet like craggy cliffs his brow descends
when deep in thought,
far away in times unwritten
searching for his grail.
war
deadly,ruthless
smashing, bathing, lashing
carders of all who have died and lived
LIFE
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