The crowds did draw ephemeral,
through windows of the night,
in shuddered, shining sanctity
where reason did take flight.
As wings of feathered dreaming,
were spread through distant skies,
so blossoms black and brilliant
did fall in dance, entwined.
Lost voices rose in dormant echo,
murmuring through the leaves,
of trees in silvered trunk and twig;
where fairies laughed and teased.
Angels gathered shimmer close,
eyes brimmed with joy's delight,
and green clouds scudded silently;
new moon rose to great heights.
I wrote this many years ago on waking from this dream:
Gift of Love
The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,
the bear stands silent in the lake,
the figure crucified is seen
upon the framework of the dream.
With arms spread wide and silent eyes
they lift her high upon the boughs
and turn her face towards the south
where white-flanked cows raise shining knives
above the meek and pious brows.
With sure and steady strokes they strip
pink flesh from each initiate,
to bathe in sacred waters then
the raw-bled truth of god and men.
The wise man watches, monkey-faced
and clasps each paw in full embrace
around the pierced and bleeding feet
of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.
Then gathered in bright, whitened arms
the corpse is carried to the edge
of water, sanctified and deep
wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.
To lie beneath the water’s chill
and watch through full and empty eyes
the blood-washed sacrifice above
has been her greatest act of love.
Embryonic memory did borrow sorrowed mind,
as thoughts like turtle scuttlings were hatching, roaming wild,
regrets in sharpened toothpicks to puncture wild relief,
earlobes dangling fatness, did burn from hidden speech.
The ego reached in jagged force, lone fighter on the day,
demand in bitter ripples as soul's aura was betrayed,
and in the slow unwrapping was shame so soon revealed;
grief drew blackened stockings on what must now be healed.
Songs of emerald colour soared, brief snapshots of the past,
the dance of life, in pine-sharp sap was flowing deep and fast,
dissecting all the dreams she held, marshmallows fat and sweet;
bursting buds of almonds, the fruit of love's bright leaf.
Microscope of focussed mind was held in consciousness,
while snakes of fear were homing, through an endless press,
of coastal drifts and mountain mists recorded for all time;
the books of fate were neatly shelved, unseen the Self did hide.
Truth did record the facts of all the child had been and seen,
the woman grown set dainty foot in lemon-scented dreams,
destiny dug deep the roots that birthed her into being;
and offered branches broad and wide; allowed the inner seeing.
Imperfection is the mark of those who walk lost worlds,
so one leg lame, irregular, the psychics ancient call,
and head cocked slightly to the edge and listening for the birds;
so do the shamans hear and know the power of every word.