Dying.
No splash.
Ripple upon ripple,
stirring
but no splash.
This is a lonely sea,
its writhes held in tight waiting
but beyond control.
Here is the palette in expectant solitude,
a birth pang in the making,
the hateful moments before the event.
A glistened pathway opens up,
light reflecting in a thousand gentle murmers,
drawing beyond the softness
to the deep transaction of unknowing.
Tomorrow falls from your grasp
and death has dominion.
-------------------
When this earthen vessel yields.
When this earthen vessel yields
When clay and ashes mingle
in cloying earth
When three voiced cockerel
is mute before the rich choir
of welcome
When that 'roll is called up yonder'
I'll be there
No longer chipped and broken
nor stained with tacky deceit
Not second best and hid in shame
nor tarnished by age
and taste's relentless purge
I'll be there
new and bright
and ready to say
'I love You'
--------------------------------
A coven of three
3am in the gentle breeze of the garden
escaping the clam of sweat
and the claim of sleep.
Me, the familiar cat and the whim of God -
a coven of three within the cloak of night.
The smoke-glassed whisper of the moon
occasionally breeching the gossip of clouds;
the caress of coolness
charming away the night's oppression.
Whose soul are you cat ?
Black and white guard-companion at my feet
on the parched summergrass.
3.42 the embryo of day.
Breaking of song - a blackbird's bidding prayer
long before the sun lays down its carpet.
Dangerous trees still clinging
to their shadowy nakedness
postponing their morning dresses.
4.00 the early shift begins
choristers on roofs and branches
as the genesis of day
begins its pastel revelation.