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)
I wrote this some years ago. Seems appropriate today.