Haiku #491

491.

Only you could see
An explosion of roses
You created in me.

Isabella

We loved in a realm
For spirits reserved,
Though if this residency
Permitted permanence
I could not tell.
Perhaps it was supposed
To be a turbulent
Temporal visit, until you
Punctured me three times
With love and said I should
Dismiss all thoughts and
Earthly worries, and
Deposit our hearts in the
Underground streams
Which feed the willows
And lawns of Surrey.

The wounds were in me still,
So you coated my coma
With love like a varnish;
How time must tarnish
And blemish and steal!
I blushed in my sleep
While you blew the cobwebs
From my dry and dusty body
And my lungs were refilled.
What I lacked, you crafted;
What I did not know, you thrilled
Me with impossible, vertiginous
Stories beside our windowsill
Where we merged our words
And when I awoke annealed
In a different Time
And different world,
My Isabella, our bones repealed,
I found my soul in your soul sealed.

A Tuscan Sunset

Love danced
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Panacea and a panopoly,
Not of a clunky bronze
Cuirassier’s
Arrow-riddled armour
For defending hearts
Flintlock futures
Penetrated easily, no;
Etymologies discarded
And I deferred the word
To verse and cursive
Arrangements of Love,
The fruits of Spring’s
Labour cascaded
Through your arteries
As remedies for writers’
Journals, and they
Gave it a name,
Writer’s Block,
For their
Blank pages were as
Sphinx-like
And eternal as the
Unblinking eyes
Of a glaring of cats.

So I write for you,
Remembering the extent
Of the scent and the sight
Of olives, peppermint
And citrus oils,
All excited and
Heightened
The senses for
Your hair unbridled with
A Tuscan fire of oranges,
Imbued me
With new romantic
Prophesies.

Primavera skies,
A parabolic shift
Under the cupolas
And blissful
Wisteria witnessing
As we kissed.
Sunset’s backdrops recanted,
We waltzed
With perfect timing
Over the catacombs
Of what we once had,
But never could return.

Song Of The Elk River

Delightful kayak,
Slender vessels of joy!
Although the river rages,
In ribs of driftwood
We’re delivered safely
Over ice-cold rapids and
Through the traps
Of countless ages,
Whitehorse-west and
North of thawed
Townships where
At torpor’s end
Aubading lumberjacks
Sing with hair of the dog
Of a haunting elk,
Its chimeric proportions
Known from Manitoba
To islands beyond
The frozen shelf,
And where the great
Mackenzie roars
We roar with little
Echoes back from our
Purified alveoli.
We reached the launch
By chartered flight,
Land of caribou herds,
Mosquitos rule
The endless night;
We shared the aurora
And an insect bite.

Days at one with the rocks
Rampaged by torrents,
Branches and crags
And this great river
Blend all the same,
There’s no distinction as
The foam fizzes and spits
At paddles and rig,
A whirlpool’s teeth
Sprayed the wherry
Where precursors
Of the Łutselk’e once
For pike and burbot
Fished, long before
The European explorers
Hired scouts to forage
For exportable coal
And a chieftain’s wife.

Our bodies were given
As blessings to the water,
The force of the river
Steals our breath as a
Payment for sensing
The riverbed’s soul.
Submerged and turned
In unison, my thoughts
Under the surface
Roll towards the Aleutian
Baidarka, inexplicably,
The scent of seal-fur
In the nineteenth century,
Pursued by light rains
And the hunger of huskies,
We come up for air
And in time the waters
Quietened, it’s an
Imperceptible shift,
As if the river
Did not so much lose
The argument, but is
Attuned to the level
Of cloudberries and
Lilacs, into still waters
We steered, a lagoon,
And there on the shore
We fleetingly caught sight
Of that wonderful monarch,
King of Bugle-Calls
And bull-thistles,
Eyes as bright in
Their patronage
As unearthed lazulite
Lifted up to the bright
Limelight sun from
Mines much further away,
With vestigial tusks
And antlers as wide
As prayers from a Trappist.

That mythical elk,
Unwinnable prize of
The lumberjacks song –
Their drunk serenades,
For not before long
Evening is tidal
Many moons behind us.
Blind to our surprise
Encounter with spirits
And garlands and nectar,
It would soon be time
For the touring company’s
de Havilland turboprop
To rendezvous
On the nude strip of
Southern plains,
And we would not have sight
Of that magnificent emblem
For more than a minute
Nor ever again.
We rubbed tired eyes
As the flight surpassed
The days and nights,
Into sunsets we flew
Like two sea-eagles
Pregnant with conjecture,
Your head on my shoulder
And in the eyes of our mind
The Song of the Elk
And the language of pine.

Eleventh Sonnet

Love you suffused me, such measures outpoured
For my soul’s carafe of old dusty clay,
Your immortal drink surpassing Time’s cord,
I lay back and sipped from the brink of May.
Spirits inveigled, delighted we teased,
Casting adrift with a parasol shade,
Love’s wine’s inundated ewers and eased
The hollow vessel, with grapes coloured jade.
I’m intoxicated; let years slumber;
Form’s commandeered and you’ve nourished my soul,
Close all weirs from West-Wales to the Humber,
I cannot return to Lands of the Toll.
The reasons for emptiness you revealed,
Your Love, like lava, inside me is sealed.