Raw with Paradise

There is a garden raw with paradise;

Bluebottles flirt with disaster,

Close by the woods mans falling hands.

They wear away and whittle and warp.

Let them fall as one?

 

There is hemlock surround in a hillside grave land,

Not believing the sun can heal anymore.

Poison ebbs within crumbling black outlines.

 

There is belief in the embrace of ivy and oak,

Red leaves cover orange leaves, then yellowed

The ground lies.

Great moss boulder retreats;

Higher ground softly shakes

In tremulous flaw.

 

All the time, souls unchain.

Distant water sucks towards the between.

Thunder; a million and one crystals

(those of many names)

Grow closer with each bracken step.

Finally, the last living wasp

Shuffles on.

 

And slowly creeps the sense of foreign words

In woodlands ring; pierced by passing owls,

The gaze, my breast bleeds green fruits

And pours heartfulness, thick of sweetness.

 

Thoughts mingle smoke with branches flayed,

With golden nation roots and mornings

Stream, caught up in ripples that twinkle and spark,

Simper in red rose distortions.

 

Fresh eggs warmly lain; the barley tops sit still,

The field seems untrammeled;

A virginal patchwork.

 

Every horizon a beckoner of hopes new dawning,

Below a copper shroud and crimson tunic

Sits a noble white feather, plucked

With impunity, by a fearless heart

And other tigers gather,

Their features meld with amber mood.

 

A one handed torrent sits clapping in nothingness corner,

And shifting claims are wattle and daub to my casing.

The stripes that enlighten and disperse with faint hope.

 

Drops, drip, drop…….

 

Outside, there is a storm dance gathering, a crackling fire

Spits momentary truths and the elders are no longer

Aged or bound by death.  They are ash upon the alter,

As are we; given to burn taught melodies;

Scar the native soul, our braiding snags crescent moon.

 

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