I am born inside
To the sight of the moon Mother moon In this misty night Of bats and trousers And baptised By settling dew It is the night of grief Eyes my father Sentenced to be joined forever In depth of sight Twin spheres in their own right Are only their own And dying My children Are mere sparks in the night To the sky there is return We know The dead will tell New light opens further Grief is yet the beginning… There Where swallows swoop for souls Beneath pewter cloud Where grey stone fills Death is woven As softly as slippers And white mist Is spirit lost Lifting into the last warmth of dusk As colour fades I see nothing remaining Over or under the tombstone Of the mind There had been anyway only little Until tomorrow’s Vast blue was remembered And after yesterday’s Crystal blue had been forgotten And until in the greater sense Of the migrant swallow Unweaving through direction only Through love alone and lonely There was heavenly home For souls above Home Here where grey stone empties And is in turn emptied Where words of remembrance Fade to the wind and rain Of centuries For higher Was the heart And higher the home For those remembering above And forgetting below Between grey rocks… The past is here And not before And welcomed In fabric densely woven Is the richness To my soil Of a heart well traveled And as easy as old shoe The body as such The most intimate clothing In this garden of history There is a richness Too to my air Where I may be found Even in the times most lost By the scent Of mother And father In the covering Of blankets Such is the memory Just of presence There is here also many a name And many a story which stays Through the ancestral line To call the meaning Without a word being spoken The ships Built for the voyage Tell the story of the journey So there shall be fruit In the fullness of time Even in the silence And here is the past secured In the greater ground Of greater truths Before the dawn of new life… His rhythm was present in the given heart beat In the taken respiration Fading from his thankfulness in empty repetition His rhythm noticed in the wonky gait Of the winter morning His theme was present in the echo of the autumn woodcutting In the scent of the ripening fruit returning His melody was as present in garlands of hope As in wreaths of sorrow And as the music of life is played And as we are played by the music How can we look to know the whole? Looking from the inside He was present in the music of the world Looking from the outside The music was present in him And the meeting of inside and outside Was forever out of sight Until conscious movement Gathered intuition Marking a time Not our time There from the very beginning… In the little town Their eyes followed the spire upward In love and hope Through times of toil And this gaze was duly honoured In the heavens Yet as clouds of love blossomed in the blue Their cherry tree hearts Were still tippy-toeing in the garden Their hearts were rather small But had at least been made so And seen so by heaven And having been humbled They better they knew their duties Of watering and weeding And so delicate were their feet Of soft pink petals As the sky distilled a mirror To reflect Comments are closed.
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