If I Thought You'd Care

 

(An ode to a medievalist's struggle with sharing a passion for monastic and ecclesiastic architecture! Credit to the Cistercian ruins of Kirkstall Abbey, Leeds, West Yorkshire, for being an inspiration for yet another piece: your beauty has a lot to answer for.)     

 

I’d tell you she’s older, than countries,

if I thought, for a moment, you cared to share my raptures;

of how she keeps me there

with no more

than the heat in her ancient bones,

how she breathes life into me,

with only her sun-soaked stones of yellow,

and reddening hue, I would want to tell

you, and only you, how her crockets

sit against the sky,

in an azure, sunset, as I taste

the wine, an elixir,

that creeps, deep into my heart,

filled with something burning,

in this place of quiet calm;

where the grass,

grows,

between your toes and time has always stood still – I would tell you

how it looks, for all the world,

just like the window sills,

are in reach from the buttress tops, and how I know,

from countless leaps, they are not – not least to me,

to climb inside,

after hours, on a summer’s night -

or sit, atop her walls,

and capture all of the details too

small and too far away,

envious of the birds that

roost and play, up there, on her broken tower,

I would tell you, hour on hour, bottle on bottle,

on a blanket,

laid where history walked,

how she could expel my tumultuous thoughts, time

and again,

with vaulting that runs like arteries and veins along the

aisles of her roofless nave, topped

by a Romanesque crown,

her dog-tooth arches,

staring serenely down at heavy columns, and tiled floors, turned to dust,

I would tell you of my aching

lust, for the way the light caresses her at dusk, and the stars,

seep through,

the last of the milky light;

the way it lands, tender

and slight, on the jagged edges

of her ruined splendour 

in approaching night…if I thought, for a minute,

you would listen; I would glow, and show you

how her windows, still glisten,

for me,

in the eye of my mind; her walls still painted,

and colour-rich, through even the tiniest find that reminds

of what once was,

and beguiles, with what is still there…

oh, for you…I could talk

a painting with words, on her,
if only I thought you would care.
   

     

Whoever Put The Stars Up

  

Whoever put the stars up, was surely thinking,

of this,

of nights in endless purgatory,

of moments forever missed, surely of times,

with a need

to look

in eyes, across a vast and impossible space;

of longing to simply hold a hand

with all this gentle grace, passed on,

in cherished touch that lets the bad things out…

the aching and the fear,

whoever put the stars up, let them be in no doubt both

far and near, they

are there

to share

when no word nor image is enough,

bodies of celestial treasure,

bound and tied with love, and bounced, from

heart to heart,

gaze to wanting gaze,

the only thing that

carries the gifts, that have no

other way

of getting there or here…from me

to you,

look up, look up and know,

how I wish on them too. 

     

Soul's Mirror

   

Come, place a mirror,

up by my heart, you’ll see secrets it carries

inside. Therein, all reflections of you, are

held, rocked, abide. What colours you

are today, tomorrow;

a chameleon-light responds,

connected to my sinew and bones, pulling painfully, with

lengthy bonds, 

and strong, 

that sit,

in turn, attached, from soul to aching soul,

glittering places, bathed,

in something ever-gold and set apart,

by things it thought it knew,

come…place a mirror, 

all there is to see

is you, 

turning

in a chamber

that dances, when you shine,

throbs and beats with truth, when honour,

pours 

all down the lines of every thing

that is,

and explodes with cherished joy, 

that sits in dark and silent pain,

in moments that the sky

between,

seems clogged with something

thick, and freezing cold,

a wall of icy

bricks I question, and you pretend you did not toil 

in earnest

to place them there - I take them down,

one by one, 

again,

so you can see the mirror, reflecting your own face and heart

and soul, and being,

and I hold it up to you. 

Mirror of my soul;

what cracks yours, breaks mine too.

    

Sheet Space

 

This silent space at the edge of life,

somewhere between, the sleep & twilight, when all

of existence is questioned and slight,

that is where the exquisite dwells; wrapped and bound

with every cell, breathed into being by

the rushing in shells, collected

from a distant

shore… Now, more

than ever before,

a dream-scape in sand and these sheets,

entwined across the hips of sleek, and salted,

summer skin,

the sound of heartbeat, drawing

in, and the scent of pleasures just spent;

paid like pennies for candy floss,

sweet, and soft and tickled across, tender

and sun-caressed curves, moving just as

graceful as

the fluttering,

early birds, so fresh,

and glistening,

like morning dew;

a long embrace denies, the sunrise-golden hue of the horizon,  

the halo cast aloft…

No matter, in night

and devilish things,

we are still too lost.

    

Between The Stars

 

It existed,

between the stars, they said,

empty,

and full

of not much,

void and simple,

time imprinted, at the end of ever

being.

It

was

unseeing, they claimed,

blind, and deaf, and dumb,

a lonely hole, unlit, un-speaking,

no mouth,

no ears,

no tongue.

But you and I, looked up through night,

and saw the stars were not selfish

with light, and the moon,

she was

more generous

still,

she shone across its vast expanse, as if she had

a room

to fill with glow, and gentle haze,

the whole world

of living could see,

and she seemed to cast a gaze,

a moment,

down, at you, and me, and all that space -  

through-out the blackness bright

 - what swam between

the stars,

was filled with love that night,

gentle, pale, and beautiful,

the whole world’s evening sight,

was a beckoning vision

cast by souls, beyond the chains

of life,

they moved between the stars

on beams,

of future and

forever, reminding us that

distance does not, negate being together in time

nor fast in truth,

no circumstance too much,

as they reached across dimensions,

and we stretched our fingers out to touch

them all

with tenderness,

and in unison,

exult and mourn,

ever glancing at the crimson of, the fast-encroaching

dawn;

a time we knew,

letting go was due, of visitors

from another place; a time we made

ourselves safe,

in a castle built of arms.

Wrapped in calm, tear-stained face to mine,

as they receded,

across the  livid sky;

you rested your weary head a time,

and I whispered:

“it was only a gift…”

And there, was born, a new morning,

on our soul-dance,

and a kiss.

    

Stations

what crime? I asked, the first time,

when shoved up to the post, and is it mine?

do I stand here, in lieu of you?

I can hold that pain a while if it means

you won’t hurt – come lay it all

on me. but tell me that’s my purpose,

for it means my soul can see, you intend me

a temporary martyr; we’ve both shouldered

that before,

and Lord,

I know it’s worth it, when you’re too beaten to

bear more, and though disgraced,

I will be redeemed,

as you always, in my eyes,

ever a holy beam and honoured,

in love, and longing, and light,

my sacrifices, willing then, flesh offered to the bite, the sting,

of every blow delivered,

each one landing, taken for you, and though you see me

shiver – keep them coming, master,

strike them all again: rather me than you tonight,

set braced against this pain.

make me your guilt and penance,

and for your sins, shriven,

as ever I make you, for mine,

so desired and forgiven.

our greatest sin is only following,

only feeling,

only falling,

so lead me to the post, my love:

I believe,

and it is calling. 

Complaints Department

     

A very British apology, but I’m sorry,

you see, 
I wish to complain:

it’s about the way your lips insist

on pronouncing

my name; about the way that your tongue,

strokes, each sound,

and every letter

rolls around in your exquisite mouth;

the way it tingles my weakened spine, and the way your

coal-eyes, burn relentless, into mine,

I wish to protest about the loss of time, I suffer daily,

recalling your touch:

about the hours I recollect

your precious fingers,

exploring too much…no, too little - it affects concentration,

I chew on my lip,

walk the wrong way in the station,

smile at nothing,

ashamedly wistful,

hissing & whistle, unheard in my blissful, middle-distant haze;

missed train -

just gazing into memory and tasting your name

on my own tongue,

I swallow it down

eager and feverish,

impatience abounds –

I must get home to object to the sound

of your breath,

and your whispers,

that all loop in my mind,

the constant replay of your growls and your sighs,

…it is inconsiderate,

I think you will find,

to be in my dreams as I walk through the park:

I am not asleep,

it is not yet dark, and it seems now

I’ve forgotten the way – I object to these

enforced delusions all day – to reminders of you in a

scent or a sight, that steal my attention,

try as I might to work,

or to travel,

to hold conversation, when all I crave is satiation in

your arms,

and our own secret realm –

behind the front door, where everything melts,

and you wait,

as in a puddle,

I drip

my belongings, and a waterfall

of rain…

“Excuse me, sir,” I whisper,

“is the department for complaints?”

The Dark Time

   

I saw the dark time

when it came again, my love;

I always see. Though you dip, and dive

and hide it from me, like a swallow in a midsummer

sky. I hear the dark time in your silent sighs,

I know its presence in unseen eyes; and there,

was a season, just passed,

of rain. Of thunder-clouds, that made you

roll in pain, of such undetermined kinds;

you laid you down with an unquiet mind,

and I felt it,

my love -

I felt the dark time, when it came again,

and the voice inside me called your name across the shining

night sky;

who came there, walking, close beside

a soul so heavy, as steel? Was I, and all the depth

I feel

to comfort you

to release and sleep…and to watch you dream. For no matter, the dark

times, ever, my love…in you

I will always believe.

Lighthouse

   

Buried secrets lay,

I know,

in the earth, at your feet,

locked and kept, in a treasure chest, from me,

stowed away,

like pirates, at sea through tempestuous

nights;

galleon, rocking, in the pale starlight,

and the sight, of land,

up ahead,

waves crashing, and a sense of dread, all hanging from

your life and limb…

But if I call you: ‘dock, and let me in’, I can make a harbour

of my arms,

you can shelter here, until the waters calm, and draw me

a map

to seek,

all the mysteries of which

you do not speak; and you can trace

the roads

on my skin – marking the place you should begin

and all those you must etch with an ‘X’,

sweet gems

and riches blessed, with the sacred

sign of a kiss: here lies,

under this,

a secret of the earth,

and the name of a god,

called out through the deepest fog,

to light the way,

it will clear and brighten the darkest day, and reconnect

ships that have gone astray in

confusion

and angry storms…

on the horizon, a silhouette will form,

a touch and an honest caress,

a lighthouse,

in the darkness, for solace,

in distress.  

Life, the Universe and Everything

Look down for a minute, from your solitary star:

there are mines there, of gold, I know,

but they are worth nothing, when you get to them, if you are haggard,

grey, and cold;

if your body stiffens and your soul is sleeping,

I promise nothing shines for miles,

even if you’re sitting on a moon-rock pile, with the cosmos

in twinkling

sight,

see: all that space-dust, will make you blind,

to anything but a sleepless night.

Endless space, only makes a cage;

if you never wipe the grit from your face, and your tunnels

are all the paths you can see:

the next piece

of glittering gold, there in the rock

to chip free and bring fortune,

like a river’s full flow;

but fortune is a wheel and a warning, you know,

she is a fairy,

of malice and spite,

who throws many a king from the greatest heights, with her clacking

touch, of bone,

Forget-Me-Not,

the simple throne, of the kingdom you already survey:

everything touched by the break of day, and the rise of temperate stars…

all you lay your eyes upon,

or embrace in tender arms; is an empire yet.

Look down…

I will leave the runway lit,

bright, like the jewels in your crown…

and at the end of the path, I’ll be waiting,

spaceman,

when your rocket-wheels touch down.