Spring froze my Garden; her barren coigns
proclaimed themselves on an arid
forecourt where Morning’s song chimed
a moment or an age ago
over the sunrise tree waking crow pheasants,
my propitious pheasants,
their deep calls glossed with purple and
cerulean, harbingers of harmonious fruition.
Blossoms festered, their hues juberous, curled
into muteness, trapped in the placeless
place where groundless
silence decked embattled moments yearning
for reliefs of leaves and shade,
living compasses of a timeless, wordless
progression entwined with Earth’s very marrow.
Every cell held a fate yearning to burst from its
bonds, yet quelling rebellion,
fusing budding shoots with the dark walls
of its chosen scourge and
safe harbour, for motion and sound boded being,
yet bodied memento mori.
Fear was a once a fluid freedom, imminent or
immanent, now forming
the ground beneath my faltering feet.
A soul uttered flickering prayers for lifeful veins
and blooded breath, for an outcome
to rise or fall upon its labouring chest. Furled as
a fiddlehead, it embraced a blinding darkness,
for memory has no need of sight,
reverie draws the gaze inward and the Blue
it revered roofs a distant Hope, a Realm
where vision flowers as it traces each cloud.
Spectral footsteps bent toward gentler hours of
quieter rays and diffuser shadows;
formless fingers unwound to touch…touch all that
they sought to write into their bones,
Moon, Polaris and Sirius, white-scented Bards and
wishes made upon tumbling, evanescing orbs
of dust. What star would exalt today’s
entreaties for tomorrow’s minutes, hours, days,
numbers that measure, not appraise?
Time stumbled, heedless as a thoughtless thought,
through a Prism of nascent Glow,
this Mind of will-less Will propelled its golden sands
onward, upward, in an act of lost rebellion,
tingeing its waves with Violet arrows
consigned for a heartbeat or an aeon to a space
of black Sun and dreamless, deathful sleep.
A Voice chanted the dark Crux of an ancient Canon
into brightness, composing a Light that
bridges worlds and sparks Summer, speaking of
music in the stillness of strings,
and resonance in tree rings; of poems the rain sets
down and renderings in moonlight’s brush.
Words danced and pictures alighted
into their colours; Autumn laced the almond grove
and a blueberry cadence warmed Winter’s heart.
© 2020 Lilium candidum