NOVEMBER MIST

As the land and skies it turns and endures,
at once incomplex and unfathomable,
womb and tomb, 
drifting past the world, pausing over
cold, hardened earth,
as seekers ponder Time and Space,
the depths of change,
futures past and pasts returning,
truths foretold and dominions unknown.

The land claimed the Seasons' testimonials 
of pride and fealty.
I alone wander this derelict enclave, for I am
a native of November mists,
born of veins of liquid fire, 
baptised amid frosty showers, 
each crystal orb a microcosm, 
epicedium to bygone states of being and
paean to future wonders. 

At my birth, they descended, gliding as spirits
transiting the ether.
My soul shall hold eternal bond with their
gelid glister,
with yonder frozen pool upon marbled
blue-grey reaching out to my blood,
directing its tides, bidding me commit its
icy pledge to my life's page. 

I fill this place breath abandoned aeons ago,
this lonely hollow trusting that one 
such as I would seek it.
It does not know my journey, my lives and
deaths, merely my purpose.
My blood contracts and beats its pulse, 
incandescent pentimenti of my ancient cosmic
peregrinations stretching through mortal layers
into its core, clinging to its verges.

© 2015 Lily's Verse

Lilium Candidum

Image: A YORKSHIRE LANE IN NOVEMBER

Source: nevsepic.com.ua

Artist: John Atkinson Grimshaw