Richard Moult

Encomium To The Source (III)


In the clearing, I am reminded why I am here:
The Masque of Fir and Birch, scattered and spacious;
The noiseless Snipe, veering away
Allowing stillness to be regained;
The hermitic rocks enclosed by the Heather
Which wakes after the Sun has left its Northern House

But most of all, no other human
To desecrate, as I do, the hallowed quietus.

Here, a tiny pool among many others
Where bubbles silver without sound
The kenotic blackness of the water.
The shape they describe is a key turning within
A starry puncture in a measured flow;
I would be that wound of water
Exalted for a moment, then healed
Into the Silence

What dialogue with the dreaming Milkwort
Whose roots suckle the water:
Response, or instead a reflexion
Or sighful utterance of something turning in sleep?
What am I to that configuration
And what if my body could fold into its shape
And simply become in beholding?

A foetus whose blackness
Pulsed through with water
Does not need the Sun
And for whom soil is the food
To swallow the cold to fill the empty space

Watching where the ice embraces the water
I know all I have created hitherto
To be the work of surface ice.
It is now to the blackness I turn
Which is within repairing this house
Within growing potatoes
Within the earth which decides if I drink
When and what I may eat –
Everything has its own time of growing.

And beside that surface between places,
Beneath the Lichen, wise upon the ancient Hazel
And of the water through whose eyes I once beheld,
The absences within me become
For the blackness to flow into them:
But it is a knowing which can never be grasped
By the mind which bears my name

The gathering Cirrus call rain
Over the black peaks which nail the sky
Above the treetops.

A buzzard pursued by ravens
The tracks of an otter
My footprints dissolving in the thawing soil

Oh to see Orion reflected in that tiny pool
Long after all my footprints have vanished
And journey to the amoeba, my Empyrean

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