Footprints, hieroglyphic lines
etched upon the frost infected ground
the sinuous coils of a signature
which may or may not be mine
steps trod once before and now and again 
of all that is, somnambulistic
trespass through the unsurveyed landscape 
of a history which may or may not be mine

Back upon the open country
the reiterative paths lead but to themselves 
and enclosed within this mortal suffocation 
we are lost
defined only be the tenor of our wanderings 
towards an indeterminate location
which may or may not be real

Low on the western fields the moon
in pallid countenance of guilt slips
with culpable silence towards the shadows of forever night
the protagonist of nocturnal gramarye 
radiates her final obeisance’s, perturbed 
by undisclosed celestial vicissitude
her chiaroscuro domain fading
blending into darkness with each retreating step
slowly descending
touching earth
dissolves in rivers of mist
which tumble and roll
over the obdurate marls of the western Cheshire Plain

Something not wholly perceived
punctuates the sentence streams of introspection 
a breath falls upon my naked frame 
no source, no breeze to stir the flesh 
from somewhere unknown
not before, nor beyond
breaks upon the presence of my thoughts
my insular view of secular scenes 
altering my senses to what in truth 
I had always known
but in reality could not confess 
the stream of consciousness

The eastern sky shows form
 
Imperceptible as the sweep of the hour’s hand 
a neap tide waxes
threads intertwine
twisting in ever changing arabesques 
monochrome textures weaving together
a tapestry in phosphorescent shades
 
Eos awakening
a promise
on this Easter morning

Warm Nile breezes across these dusty roads
a fragrance of fecundity to dried-out bones
I did not consider you 
not here
where you spoke to me as in a vision
as the wind whispers
to observe the distillation of truth
to chart the unfamiliar terrain 
between illusion and reality
to ever endure the disparity 
what we say – what we do
what we dream of doing, this is the dawn…
 
the day remains as yet unclaimed
 
 
Transfigured in the still increasing glow of
embers smouldering with gentle absolution 
in the early hours
between the darkness and full light
the softness of a Levant morning permeates the solemn air
the stones and thorns of a garden
where a woman weeps
the beat of her lamentation filling these reflective hours
vacant with possibility
a moment that separates every act from its consequence 
every word from its meaning
every irredeemable effect from its cause 
the naked horror
of just another crucifixion
 
                                               –      from the resurrection 
 
 
Woman, why do you cry?

(for Seraphim)

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I wrote this some years ago. Seems appropriate today.