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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

Lily’s Verse

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