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Friday, June 06, 2008

The Churchyard

Prologue

the churchyard is filled with silences,

the air on hold, ready to unburden
the light crescendo
of a funeral march,

stones bent with sorrow of days once had,
yet free, for
life can no longer touch them
down there -

now simply markers, stating
the years that died,

laid in shelter from the outside world,

losing their scent down a thinning track,
candles lie here, now privy to the dark.

- I -

The axle of the world is severed
in labyrinths with still centres,
by a slumbered loneliness,

it is a rich soil; full of body,
though what is sown grows no more
in likeness than the fruit of the land.

Interim

the silence is gnawed
as shovel hits the dirt,

men scrape out a famished mouth,
soon to swallow past expectations,

down there in the dark
the moon is all black,
the stars all gone,

like the blindness of the heart's black hole

only the song of the wind sings,
as though so long ago come back,
to haunt the emptiness
just a little more -

yet from where I stand I feel
the sun soar on my back,

boom-boom-boom-boom-boom

it beats its heat
like the wild sound from the heart
of a newborn child.

- II -

Stones mark beds of rest,
transcripts of diminished light,
and ringed with green,

they draw perfect whorls in the stream
of the visiting human tide,
a rippling impression of the gravity of space.

Interim

the day pulsates and rotates,

though this is a field of frozen circumstance,
the prevailing,
guiding melody of the digging men
and the slowly rising sea in me
is a corroding harmony,

the providential path

of public mourning,
to direct the human will
into such channels of a civil grace -

makes me turn to questions
to keep the faith:

is this a place of redemption
for the living,
and contentment for the dead?

is this where we lock wisdom in boxes? -
or unlocked from its box
is here where we drop our belongings
to move on
to the heartlands of the soul?

or is this long box
the true shape of the soul?

- III -

The real fortunes of history
are these faded portraits tainted by time -
for life is excused, but it is not -

none can rewind this river wending on its own,
we believe the journey is a climb,
but the track rushes down, down, down.

- Epilogue -

a yearning earth,
the hole gapes like an echo -

the sudden fear
there is no more than this -
this is the source

is but a brief encore,

carried in on something new
so small that cannot be seen

something in the air, floating free
landing unnoticed germinates,
changing the land in me,

the simple form
of truth recites from inner memory
a better tale,

from evening star to mauve
dusk, through to the rise of light
that brings sunlit vision to clear up
an evening's fiction,

a soul snagged in this filmy web has broken free
to be born -
as perhaps a morning breeze, or an echo

or go on, on, on,
up with the air,
to a greater reconciliation.

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