Meditrinalia

Endless splendour of Autumn,
The most auspicious season;
Summer’s sulphurs banished,
Unhelpful thoughts and reason.

There’s always time for change,
A stillness time surprises;
May truth arraign the meddling way,
Stripped of their disguises.

Distance is no failing,
Our losses are not training
For deathly aisle-bound brides
Dressed in greys and waning.

My favourite season, then;
Cooling, hope adjusts to light;
Heaven’s just as powerful
When at her furthest height.

Rio Grande do Sul

My life is the size
Of one grain of sand
On a beach in Brazil
Or faraway land,
Further away
Than the south Rio Grande,
Further away
Than the end of my hand.

Yet my soul beats as big
As the Amazon basin,
As bright as an eye
In the swan constellation,
Further away
Than the blessed and the damned,
At my window sill waits
For the ends of a man.

So if you are feeling
As lost and alone,
Remember the healing
For how hearts atone –
Your soul touching stars
Braiding sinew and bone.

The Return

I know you have your worries,
I have my worries too,
Yet what is life without worries?
I’m one of the unhurried few.

When this all is over,
I’ll learn to fish again.
I’ll cast my nets into the sea,
I’ll learn to be a friend.

A hibernating spider
Is dreaming of my pen;
I’ll write about the worries
Until we turn again.

Then we’ll be in Avalon,
There we’ll live in the sea;
Speared by a sheering light
Of love, and quiet harmony.

October Dresses

I sat down alongside you
In the Church Of Just Getting By;
I placed my hand on your knee
Not born of ego, but to comfort,
Yes, from time to time.
I longed for the rains and ashes
Drained from an Autumn sky;
They stretch so far above Norfolk,
Where’s ending you and I.

I sat alongside purest love
In the Chapel Of Out-waited Time;
Love is not for tempering,
You moved my hand to your thigh.
I wanted to tell you a story
But words were stuck in my spine;
Life is only as good, my love,
As all we put before us,
Where fallacies will die.

Sometimes we seem to transmute
Thoughts between our minds;
The air is thinner, October dresses,
Your colours are divine.
Tortured by past events, memory
Can still yet retrace artefacts
In rooms which no longer exist.
Harassed by this inanity,
In your hopes I will reside.

The Measure

October rains;
I found a tape-measure
Underneath my pillow.
You placed it underneath
My dreams’ verses
Which revert to dramaturgic
Heathlands and dried,
Harvested high-hung wheat
In faded, yellow sheaves,
Kernels cradling hope
Like a jaundiced newborn
Baby in the arms
Of a nurse’s labours
Which are as wide as heaven,
As firm as a popular truth,
And that is the measure
Of how far our love
Endured and endeavoured
To find one another,
Over the thirteen seas
And under a gabled roof,
A pillow filled with straws
Which fall from the hearts
Of winnowing stars.

A Lunar Love

When stars advance
To where we now can see,
Their light-love travelled just so far
To where we had to be.

Constellations slowly move
And not as sequined heroes,
Our perspectives only prove
False gods are shaped like zeroes.

I’m glad that we are nearer now
Than source-springs of a myth;
My goddess is the meaning now
Of distance in life’s gifts.