tied against the mountain
the blue children play
the upturned apples' cart
scent filled the air
The Wild herons flew southwards
as the crucible sun hit the apex
Crimson skies laced against
the white aconite churchyards
We left, denouncing the first hymn
we heard
surely someone has desecrated the night sky
A wandering heathen
compelled to wander and wonder,
clinging to the subjective notions
and half-baked personal philosophies
that evolve with each new day
and whisper with each pale night.
Away from the Kingdom Hall,
past temples more austere
and churchyards more severe
and cemeteries filled with believers.
Away from the witch
and away from the doctor
and past the feckless witchdoctor,
casually to the throng of the witless,
clinging to the odd concoction
of odd concoctions.
Wan hoodoo drags the bones,
no voodoo holds the dust.
4th April 2019
THROUGH COOLING ROWS OF MIRRORS
The frozen cheeks of children spoon the air
With mandrake callings
Grim intracted products breaking
Membranes off the waves.
ANOTHER DAY IS COMING
Through the breeze electric blueness
Once and forever
Daughter of the stone tomb
Bearer of man the womb choosing
Misty swirl – blossom of morning light
Lunge in the cave of day.
MIST OF SPIDER-BLEACHING SHADOWS
Parade of the flower-bed veils
Drop of ancient autumn
Mistress of the pilot’s eye
Spinning messages through trees.
GRASP IT. GRASP IT
Be seen above the bee’s quick turnings
Make gold the apple’s greenness
Silent churchyards in the blue and graying town
Through peoples’ eyes the seven dreams come leaping
A shadow of a letter from a friend’s dismembered hands
Unbroken by the voicing of his echoes.
The stars still cast their subtle glow
Through the greyish black churchyards that we know;
Next morning’s fate lies unknown
Before the dawn.
The clouds still drift just as before;
The canaries still chirp outside my door,
Yet suddenly appears the taste of nothing.
The sky is indigo and the blue jay sings;
The children catch fireflies by their wings
Though I am somber.
Throughout the universe no pleasure can exist;
Mirth turned her face at me,
Ever since you fled.
The faithful common English yew,
a hardwood,deadly but true,
ornamental,a shelter too.
When it takes root it's here to stay
through storm and tempest
it will not sway.
Evergreen,spreads its wings
far and wide,
many a secret to hide.
In churchyards,oft is found,
long out-lasting those nearby,
buried in the hallowed ground.
Round goes the spiral
looping the path.
Straight stand the stones
high in green grass.
Round goes the moat
circling the tor;
solitary stanchion saracens
high altars they bore.
Round goes the blood
red twining the past
tall stand the grave stones
memories n’er made to last.
Round goes the gate
in the churchyards mall
through walks the sacred
peacocks ashen white pall.
Round go the penitents
lead through the hatch
lonesome lost lifetimes
Avebury’s dispatch.
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