Beautiful

     

Beautiful shadows

fall at angles

that remind me

of you, leaning in close

under a pale, orange moon-cast glow,

on the boughs of the trees,

your whispers

were not so different

to the sound of their

leaves, growing spartan,

in the warm Autumn breeze,

fluttering like kisses

and enchanting heartbeats, against

ribs,

seeming broken,

as twigs, underfoot,

snapping, with pressure, and

weight; the same way something shattered

across your face

every time I called 

down

grace and prayed your name in

the still

of night;

filled your senses: your scent

and sight, enraptured,

until your iris

turned black,

deeper and softer

than the velvet back of a

silent

moth to a flame's leaping light,

burning with a gentle crackle, bright, in

crisp

and empty air;

late - a bonfire, a wood burner,

a taxi queue...

the hot smoke of your breath

in my hair. 

    

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.