Richard Moult



Whilst regarding the spiderous cloud
I am looking down the aions
Witnessing a carving of terrible veneration:
I am freed by not casting judgement.

Born an utterance of that outsider forest
Whose thresholds touch the enclosures
And dusk-filled seeds are sometimes blown
So that the enclosures change.

In our campanile, my beloved,
Our voices become roots of echoes
This, regardless of who we think we are,
Just as not one protestation matters to the forest.

I cannot speak of oaths save one
Caused in that infant, personal, dyssolving
Enshadowed throughout, to be repeatedly unconcealed

You will find no kindred there along the ways:
Only the soil’s erasings, under the silent grass of gold
Only the dusk-filled machinations beyond Time and us.

Rain bleeds onto the glass, and wearily, a rough curtain is drawn.
There, a fire, the gales, and the carvings of a life.
“There is time enough for understanding …”

So, another momentary waking
Into our shared nature with God;
Nothing remarkable, and nothing to remark upon

Seeds, drowned or anointed by seconds of storm
On a forest threshold

Music: “Momick 4” from the album Momick (Baldud Flies! 2011)

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