the angels sing....
In the dark church
the angels are singing vespers
against the candle-lit gloom
and the tiny organ thrums the dark sound
as sweet as black treacle poured into a baby's mouth.
The dark sweet baby is a church of dreams,
it gets cradled against the candle-lit singing,
and makes the sound of angels
as if singing could be all that this abandoned building
needs to hold itself up and against the world
keep its mouth thrumming.
A Walk in the Rain
Rain filled my boots and bubbled through the top stitching.
I'm describing symbolic light in puddles, verse, paint and light itself,
just by being here, now the sky is clutered with metaphor.
As I walked through the rain I listened to the thrashing music of my heart.
Soon became a lake in the road, with yellow leaves floating,
and as the wind stilled so there seemed to be a spreading map.
All this time walking, the same route, the same houses,
but lately I've noticed the rain falls most swiftly right here,
in the verancular fork in the road, marked with bird blood.
*
Just when I know, there isn't any bubbling truth so it is the light
is well-versed and gets puddled into remembrance,
the sky embracing yet another filled-in painting of cluttered rain.
There is a map with so many musical lakes, it seems walking
is the only way to still the heart, to listen to the road.
Spreading the moment, like so many leaves becoming yellow.
I've made a fork out of swiftly fallen homes.
It's only now that I see the blood of vernacular routes and veins,
the same marks of time, as I walk with my dreaming bird.
Turquoise Hearts
I looked up and saw the wash of turquoise light,
the people of the land all killing themselves softly,
mixtures of gentlemen smoking their hearts,
the light diminishing, glowering in the corner of my eye.
I mixed the gentlemen into smoke, love,
they came into the light and glowed, and killed.
It was enough for them that mixed up lands can corner light,
if you look up now you'll see the diminished soft turquoise.
branch, twig, root
this is not for us
how trees give themselves up
in such a rapture of sunlight
the trees untree
find again their frame
make do with
the medieval skills
the melancholy air
of being branch
twig
root
