for Dad. Safe travels

three ravens had flown
called by the thinning breeze
up to where the spirits come
to see if he was waiting there

he will be coming they said
walking through old pastured lands
lain fallow now for many years
with withered roots and flowers laid bare

and when he comes
we will watch him pass
the purest self through an open heart
and blend beyond into endless air

she waits
holding to the thrill
of his slow approach
known
consented to

she sways
as he nears
electricfying skin
willing
soon to be covered
in her lover’s sweat

she accepts
his sonorous voice
dances her furious dance
eyes closed
flailing limbs
lost in the passion of it all

how quiet it is
the unknown dark
wellspring
sibling
its brilliant beads surrounding us
in patient perdurable herds
awaiting an outcome
or acknowledgement
that we know they are
unbearably far away

quasi drunk

on these precious petals

plucked by trembling 

finger tips of good faith

and half willing

only to appease

our inability to change

 

but they are in no measure 

what mother needs

to keep her flesh

from bleeding out

and crying for us

her lost ones

who can only cling

to her withering skin

and our own false

hope

haven’t we heard enough
of this insatiable thirst
lapping at our bones
and our land
our windows and doors
it’s as if to say
‘just to remind you
we might not stop
if we choose’
but for now it’s just bluff
they will lull us to sleep
and slip away before
the light wakes
an obliterate world

from the budding
to the versed
every shade
and gender melt
we have run together
from the day into this
transient dark
collective arms
around an urgent ardour
left clean and bare
as sea washed stones
tumbled
joined
as purified and spent
as we know
we should always be

there are shadows nested in me
a womb of quiet wraiths
x-ray proof
hand-me-downs i never chose
bequeathed from meagre pickings
can’t hand them back

so i carry them close
pressing warmth against
their chill to soften the sting
in hope to remind me
we don’t see our footprints
until we look back

for the fallen 1914 to 1918

he had risen
from the clawing clay

that would keep
his flesh and fears

the stench and guns
now distant waves

and in the splintered trees
the ravens black jewel

the overseer of loss
beckons him on

‘it’s as it should be
there’s nothing to be done’

 

the wind came
out of exile
from the north
tempering the
somnolent summer
that turns a head
and slouches south
beaten for now

it freshens in
respite for
heaving lungs
and tacky skin
blowing purity
through thoughts
simplifying
the next stretch

into mindful
preparations
to slow our
need for the world
to forgive
its expectations
and leave the cold
to steer our course