Elijah

This one’s for Elijah,
A man we never met;
Once his heart was beating,
Once his dreams were let.

Have you witnessed fireflies
Sold in parking lots?
I was in a steering wheel,
My soul was in the trunk.

Elijah, you’d be older now,
Embossed by what was not;
I live with futures lost in me,
Subpoenaed for my loss.

Gadolinium

I found a subtle place
Before your grave,
Indelible solitude,
Quintessential quiet,
Ego-traced and
Silenced,
Where Time and her sublime
And graceful sister Space
Were finally disproved,
A vision overcame
My diurnal self,
My empty-bottled body,
A vision of dark matter
Now made illuminated
Capillaries with
Cores of fire,
A galaxy’s whole aorta
Belched and splattered
Purples, yellow-golds,
A gadolinium ink,
A causeway,
A moment only
Enduring centuries.

Within this vision
I could see how roads
Rejoin that which science
Deceived
With industry
To disconnect our planets;
A wounded view,
Instead those old contusions
Are now piers where
Truth blooms perpetually.
I could see the infinite ways,
Like roots from Yggdrasil
Alighting shoots to
Embassies on Jupiter,
Grand statues with
Sandy orange knees
Standing high above me,
And on to gloomy Saturn.

You will walk that distance
When my mind is composting,
It’s only a million miles a day;
Find Jovian moons in a year,
Then light the higher way,
Return what once was far
From life, and icy cold,
To what is now revived,
Nearby, dear selflessness,
And finally in reach.

The Running Dog

For all bifurcating branches
Sublime in their simplicity,
A dog has very little need

Indeed, yet with joyous barks
No less retrieves
Inherent interventions

Between what we deemed
Essential, or inbetween,
Or instead invented;

This contrast is at times
A subtle one,
Like sunlight through

Doppelganger-dappled leaves,
Ever since antiquities
In these dark-shaded parks

Of our entwining souls;
Yet if not for that twisted,
Rotten tooth of birch

In boggy undergrowth,
There would be no us,
Nor any running dog at all.

Withering

I woke within sounds appalling,
Crow caws on my pillow mourning;
Rolling over, window-way,
Found jackdaw claws on the other;
Jaundiced wallpaper,
Sunlight slithers,
Only believing such dust
From their claws are withered.

Sell my books, sell the lot,
Donate my bones to charity shops;
Do one thing well, no polyglots,
Place my plea in a local plot;
Gasoline dreams, gardenia rot,
I woke in a dream I then forgot.

Beckoning

A deluge in May,
Kerbside surface spray,
Torrents overwhelm
Dank country lanes.

Driving in low gears,
Waterfall chicanes,
Wrong latter ways,
Reminds me of childhood

And leaping over streams
Beneath a tarn-light bay,
Beside a dead man’s seam
In long-lost dreams

And longer lesser days.
Over there, a castle, see,
Its ghosts roam free
Through basements, attics

And these oak-pannellings
Overlooking a sodden
Village green;
Stumps received,

And sandwiches filled with
Cucumber and cheese;
The church hall leak,
Well, we can fix,

While men in linen-whites
Played winning willow innings,
Then ominous rains returned,
And a beckoning for tea.