Not Beautiful

     

I, am not beautiful; not that way, not

to open my eyes and wake

to a day in yours; adored; every

part important

to the glory

of a sunrise, or the sinking of light in an azure sky.

My eyes,

are not, the thing

you watch 

the flames 

dance across,

nor the softness of my skin,

a cloak for you, against the autumn breeze - 

what you see, is not the glow 

of my soul, in those embers,

not the burning of my being in the 

crackle of the blackened

wood.

     

I, am not beautiful - though my 

heart is a rose, for you,

given,

ever-perfect,

crimson bloom;

you gaze upon it, in silence,

crush it,

and smell its perfume,

and turn away;

not exquisite enough, to stay

in your hands, 

or be called your own - only

a rose, 

that shrinks and depletes,

held dangerously close to the damaging

heat; that shrivels

with the searing 

of cold words and

averted eyes; 

    

still,

it struggles, in faith, to survive.

     

I, am not beautiful.

Will you notice, before it dies? 

   

The World Has Changed

    

I sit down to write it,

because if do not, capture 

how the sunlight streams so silently  

through the kitchen window

this morning; like all other things, 

all other moments - it will pass.

And it may not be forgotten,

or end; in the way some things cannot,

but be filed,

it will fade,

like the frost on distant roof slates,

and I must, 

for as I wash the cheeseboard

to the scent of wet pine,

and coffee;

an orange glow, rises,

over the hills and chimney pots, and the world

has changed:

minutely,

but resolutely,

(a blackbird calls his mate)

beautifully;

the world has changed. 

   

24.04.21 A Saturday Afternoon at Roche Abbey; Spring.

    

No great wonder, that a heart is buried here

for to steal a thousand,

would tax you none

rising arches of shimmering white, reach long

into whisping blue

still-silence is broken, not by you, and

the rushing, babbling waters of your veins;

but by those who yet remain, behind you,

in the aisles of time.

Bushels of corn, your transepts' lines,

prematurely terminate before the skies you once 

stretched 

to touch.

It is all to do now to dream and look at 

Heaven's umbrella,

once upon a vaulted cellar and 

a clerestory you tell

so well in ribs and bosses,

once upon more beautiful voices,

that filled your bare bones with song.

Long, 

now

since the points were set 

in stones;

since chapters were heard

and read, and the breaking of

bread graced your altars with devotional crumbs;

kissed today, by only the sun and steps 

of a shiny-backed

black beetle 

who is surely, running late...

You wait, as the afternoon's heat abates,

still shelter to offer and solace

to take, for those who will stay beneath

your arcades;

more pieces of hearts are buried;

shadows lengthen,

and time fades away. 

    

Laude

    

Oh, a pilgrim and a traveller, I

who's spirit leaps to, at last, lay eyes,

arms spread wide, under blessed skies of summer;

soul of great faith and the heart

of a lover - whirling dance

of barefoot passion,

lost in time's decaying cushion,

of lichen and winding 

wildflowers.

Where once was power, now

is nought,

but lessons learned and history taught

the Early English way;

the kind that all eats up a day in coffee,

and ice cream,

and toes in the grass,

and the quiet scratching

of a pen, on a page:

votive offerings to the hanging heat haze and 

scent of sun on stone; and skin.

Oh, this sinner's gaze drinks 

you in - and asks for no forgiveness;

for I will be guilty again of largess, where so I love,

with the flighted ease of a belfry dove

as I give,

in equal measure, I take;

the caress of my eye and pious grace 

in tracing curves

and lines.

Stay with me, at the altar; be mine, as sunlight 

dies away,

for you can have no concept, Saint,

among the lengthening shafts of gold,

how softly you encase,

and silently consume me, whole. 

    

Homeland

    

What countries ask of kings,

is rarely all the same,

re-population never to yours, the aim, of

any of those wild foreign games. In fact,

she wasn't sure 

she was unselfish enough

to plant seeds and tend, in any fresh plough.

Well now,

you supposed at her desires,

without any consultation as to what really

lit fires, and beacons, on her cliffs

and throne 

what it was that trully made you feel 

like home. Really she asked only,

that you stayed;

through her mists and temperate storms

that passed

just as eagerly as you wiggled your toes 

in her fresh spring grasses,

and moth-kissed her skin

on a summer's night.

      

You see, other countries 

might have demanded 

sight

of their future selves,

and a tiny crown,

in your eyes; but she;

was an island - 

an endless vacation,

yours to own, a tiny nation (of two),

for only the price 

of a heart,

and the holding of an equal hand; 

given over;

as a passport, a devoted citizen

of she,

your chosen homeland.