There was no melancholy leading to this. It just came to me, is all.
Make of me
(when all that can
be used to save’s
been taken) then a
compost – ‘to the
grass, the lions;
parent, to the
deep black sky –
and nurture in it
nutrients to nestle
’bout a seed.
Plant me (Get
permission, first!)
to look across the harbour –
either where the day begins
or where it ended – and
now watch to see if
there’s a girl-child
conjuring ‘n clearing out the mist,
her poise bright and her eyes
lit like the river.
Let me/it,
at last, then, rise,
buffeted by sound-waves
that bring the bellrings
sailing past, on through
the blue-backed sun;
trav’ling ‘neath th’remembered
light of stars.
Make sure that the
serpent keeps it safe
from being branded by
the panicked, pious, insecure
antithesis to freedom;
let a rebel angel
burn through blaspheme-proofed walls,
exposing the life inside to meaning.
Leave it/me at
last to live a
second time remembered –
bereft the streaming consciousness;
in place, a clear, still lake –
and find the riv’ring remnants now
reflecting from its surface, blue,
a spirit channeled through
once-written words.
Image credit – freepik
william altoft 