Wide widdershins skies,
Dead warrior skies – red moon.
Wives wait patiently.
Low winter-soon Sun.
There’s enough room in this world,
Yes, for everyone.
I caught a glimpse of the lady
I would love eternally,
Retained in the shape of a bather
In a photo reflecting the sea.
The sacred four-horned oxen
Walked on stones in my heart,
I prayed I may evaporate,
And fall into her arms.
As my quiet prayer was calling,
Deathly forests distracted me;
From clouds I started my descent,
Ended in your memory.
In one such forest’s fated clearing
A brook of crystal waters dried,
A spring to feed the falling prayers,
A place of rest for a bride.
The clouds merged in to mountains,
Mountains gave birth to the sea,
If only longer I’d waited,
And brought an end to all misery.
Sometimes the sky seems as wide
And big as my sadness.
Sometimes I wonder how it was Permissible for you to step out,
While I was stored within a moment.
Sometimes I wish I was something else,
Less than my cobbled wheezy-sided,
Indulgent, obsessive false-comparison self,
And that’s just the better half
Of my kernel. On the other side,
A spider’s on my eyelids;
A paperweight, a floating shelf.
If I was a god of kindness,
By degrees I doubt it would help,
I’d be a god of putting things off
Instead, and drinking tea,
A god of missing you,
The goddess of missing me.
How can I follow my love’s path,
When there is no path to see.
Skies with deepening greens,
It seemed our worlds had
Turned upside down; seas
Became skies and the skies
Were the sea. No longer
Walking a coastal path,
But somewhere else, no
Erosions, a few other walkers
Enjoying the weekend air,
A jogger in slow motion,
A cat in the woods carrying
A defibrillator pack on its back;
These sights still exist somewhere.
In those clifftop woods we passed
By houses being built, an estate,
With huge Buddhist statues and
Tannoys set to play meditative
Canons while we counted beads
On our japamalas. Then back to
The coast, a dip in the cliff,
A ghost village, where miners
Lived with their hopelessness,
The seams stretched out
Under the ocean bed and which
Are now like cloud-tunnels
In a revolutionary sky.
I found you in a lounge where
Purple wallpaper was decorated
With motifs in black. A room
For the living they called it.
No wonder I felt uncomfortable
In my own skin. You wore a dress
With a crinolette made from
The wishbones of whale and
Eagles’ nests, and overlaid in
The very same purples and blacks
As the patterns on the wall.
You shifted into blueness,
Then exited without a trace;
In my waking day I’m found
Wandering these apocalyptic
Streets and revisiting a sky,
Still here underneath its weight,
Just where you left me.
With balloons of lead, freely I floated,
Never too soon for my ending;
A bird in the hand with olives I coated;
The more that’s said, soon mending.
On laurels I slept with Time outrun
And resurfaced for the good battle;
When the last cow dies there will be no Sun,
No stones in the sky for the cattle.
Using wire, masts and copper
We called a vet to inspect a sick Friesian;
He spigotted heaven with spotted grasshopper
And found the heifer-lesion.
They showed me the bark with vascular wilt,
Teachings kept me on my knees;
Circumferenced trunks with a black quilt,
They could not see the wood for the trees.
I’m writing now, undisconcerted,
Until I’ve burst through the surface of adage,
Their pith the stuff and substance subverted,
The vet took his tools in his baggage.