Encomium To The Source

idrig

Petrified cloud, blasted slate-grey and rose by ice
So high as to appear an airship, static.

Only in Winter weather do such clouds shape
From the space between themselves and the stars,
The nearest mirroring of ourselves:
On their side, the Silence, to our Voice.

The emptiness within the shed, between wood and ground
Is like that space, there at the beginning as the empty grave
Until I fill it gradually with a violence

(Which moves me to paint upon the door a Green Man
Who weeps for the trees within who gave their lives for me.)

Hill in golden light; one lone tree; the Moon and the Clouds, reddening:
A musick whose notes are erased as they are sung,
To make me pause, empty, hand-axe dropping to the frozen soil

The clouds darken, and now it is the ridge, red glowing,
Clothed by evening Sun where the sea is a glaucous space
Without waves, between my Voice and the mountains’ Silence.

I think on the emptiness of the sea caves, and the spaces between the pines:
It is not what I do or even how I live, but only how receptive I am
So that I could myself be sung unto erasure.

The clouds tonight, inky dark and moving over the sea as an old familiar procession
Brought again a time-lapse: I feel I am living in the early 1970s.
Perhaps this is a reconnecting down the years with my childhood self,
Both of us at that point removed from ourselves to face the same inexpressible vision …

There is an intoxicating, echoing sense of a Northern realm
Together with a tearful intimation of innocence
By turns dark and vibrating with the presence of a vastness, as expressed by a sea.

The faces of the clouds are grinning, yet impersonal, and replete with aeons of knowing.
I feel a fear of being removed from all that I am and all that I have
But with the knowing that only one courageous step is required for me, whenever I am called
To be reunited with a realm too distant to consciously recall.

An incident which I then relinquish, and pick up the hand-axe, and work
Each blow, each exertion bringing emptiness.
Hill in red light; one lone tree; the Moon, and the Clouds, blackening:
An encomium to the Source, far truer than my interpretations.

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