Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Wavelets slapping flat back the boat poured from our oars
creasing and washing the lipped glass skin of sky
polished flat by the blue between beds of pale drifted grey.
Later, a smooth bumping across fields of chopped water
pulling against the earth as trees scrape the shore's crumbling
lines and lips mouthing a quick-bristled, leafed penumbra -
we carry clunked, resonant steps into a level path undertaken
by the skimmed pieces of last year's shore, and supper's glutted hide.
The wind dries our teeth into smiles and furrows us, sucked and
combed aside. Too shallow there for careless talk, when
as guests we float in borrowed boats and boots thick-waxed before us.
The rolling coal-breath building to scent and drip us wood-warm
with the day spent yet blue and clear, stilled expecting night and
made to wait in the gloaming. We sit between the lake
and the house, grown lighter for the shutting down and drawing-to
as water dries and fire fades, faces paling for the midnight moon.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
I walk with the author
of scent and sound -
a sculptor of shape
and shade beside
my destiny-tread. This
truth will not blend.
Her eyes called what
seemed a similar hue,
not true but coloured
with a life and line -
shades and flickering
raises, glimpses glinting
at me: too hungry
for anything more than
a pulped, puckered depth
filmed with the day-surface.
Called by the sheen of tears on your face
To hold you firm and carry you far
From night-shadows behind and the shallow smile
Of yesterday’s hope betrayed. One
To bring us, broken, into the arms of a King
To bury that face of loss, and sobbing cry
On the heart of the name we no longer deny.
Crimson-cloaked and crowned to follow -
Eyes shining, rising
With the True Light now of our every tomorrow.
To the heart of it. Call the theme and I
will answer with only the core of the
creation-breath in me. Sweeping through it,
soaring over all, singing every soul-song alone
and together again at last. All in one, sunk
and strung through with the tides of a wind
unwritten and precast in the forges of those
sunlight-eyes. A past cast and caught to be
swung, woven anew with honey-dripped
dewstreams of unbroken truths untold
and as yet unsung by angel-poets in the
treetops. Listening to You. Calling to You.
In earnest weeping on feet that glow with
the dust of heaven’s dawning, feet that grow
rooted to a life of glory never defined but
destined to be shouted and hurled from
the crest of every wave, thundered from
every cloud and sung from every throat
that has known that voice. That beat of war,
that crash of a new tide on shores of gold,
and the throb and roar as the mountains
kneel before the Master: Creator-Illuminator,
Love-shining Maker. The Heart of it.
Time will barely allow us to catch
a glimpse, to watch the ever-present glory
flow in processions of light and harmony from
the broken gates of that darkest, plundered place.
Thundering calls embrace minds awoken now
to the death of all that binds, all that was broken
and taken from the hands of death. Removed
from all who will allow The Life to awaken
the joy til now half-hidden: the sunlit lands
all-held in hearts but yet unbidden, now called
unveiled, beheld by parts til now unlighted.
Your hand will hold, Your heart will call
Your voice will mould my soul, my all
with words that burn, refining true
my heart held fast beholding You.
The songs that flow from heaven’s throne
breathe growth to tearful seeds once sown
and life to minds once darkness-bound
now caught embraced by Love profound.
The Man of Truth, my Light Immortal -
all creation’s Lord through Love eternal:
Your smile my prize and gift by grace,
eyes streaming joy we are face to face
Monday, 27 April 2009
Furrows of bronze swathe the sky in
this twilit awe-golden bluewash
of an evening looking down on fields of
birds and a forest in smoke and skeleton-brush:
clustered, ringed and grass-lapped.
Drinking the sound of dusk-trapped day,
dozing cloudfall vistas glower clod-trodden -
crusting fleck and feel, peelable. Strokable.
Crescendo-attainable through panes
of green and grainy mirrors of world:
That still moment between day and dusk
when the grass glows harder than the sky.