lightly

lightly and lightly adorned in a ripple of never

passing invisible out of the now we have known

into another redemption, another forever

 

lightly and lightly dismissing a burden of sorrow

slipping inviolate into a deeper beyond

softly to follow a dream of unending tomorrow

 

lightly and lightly begun what can never be ended

lost in a filigree universe spiralling free

free as the balm of a moment we never intended

Looking Out

beyond the rowan

(lime green fronds, musician's hands awakening)

an olive-yellow poplar

(lighthouse-proud, this slow slow dancer)

yearns for the hill

  

two figures walking

(silhouettes, fleas on a rabbit's ear)

closeness a hard won summit

(Hereford and all of Wales below)

and you, the other 

Tusitala

Kirstie spoke your final words,
abandoned, by the Weaver's stone.
Tonight, chiefs walk the road they built for you.
 
You cannot see the gifts they bring,
or feel rough lips against your hand;
still, you will share their silent vigil. They
 
will carry you, their Loving Heart,
their Tusitala, high above
Vailima to the place you wished to lie.
 
But will you rest under that sky,
defiant as your requiem,
or will you rise and walk the low road home?

Nettle Love

Some favour finest muslin, others silk.
A few prefer synthetics. That's OK.
  You'll find no judgment here.

Newcomers often ask - why dress at all?
believing (as they would) that nettles seek
  the unprotected skin.

They do not understand - the sheerest weave
catches each predatory ragged leaf
  to press it sweetly close.

Nor do we run and thrash. Each loving sting
is better savoured in a peaceful mien
  than in a turbulence.

We are not many. It is for the few
to walk in nettled fields and to enjoy
  this most aesthetic pain.

Empty Roads

These are the empty roads with barren fields
on either side. The fence is well maintained
but forms no barrier. To cross it yields
no bounty. No-one goes where nothing's gained.

Here was a vineyard, planted with Grenache.
Deep-rooted vines, they were the last to die.
A painter caught them, green against the ash
but lived to see them wither, by and by.

Where no trees shade the ancient burial mound
the winds that gleaned the topsoil from the stones
whistle their idiot tunes, round and around,
as if to call to dance the nameless bones.

The days of grief, of mourning, all are done:
how shall a sigh be heard, where none draws breath?
The last war on mortality is won,
for we are done with life, and done with death.

We sojourned long as creatures of the soil,
endured eternal rounds of death and birth,
emerged as gods, rewarded for our toil.
Look! We have built the Moon upon the Earth.

Tammie

She died on Castle Hill, and Davie knew
the moment, for the mist came to her eye
as Tammie slipped away.

She walked between the shafts. The cobbled wynd
guided her home as Davie stroked her mane,
older by one grey mare.

Standing in her own stall, her breath was slow.
She heard the rustled straw and kindly words
as sad hands rubbed her down.

He left her for an hour. She had to die
alone, and he was not the kind of man
to try her dignity.

Resting upon her flank as darkness fell,
he smoked his cherry pipe against the night,
remembering a friend.