Spiral

In the Autumn of my thoughts,
I poured my exploring self
Into one of my known past lives
Where somehow I became caught
Inside the awful seven lies.
Not the life where you
Track me back to a
Red-throated gecko’s crest
In my headwear,
And not the life
Where poems were tied
By one red ribbon
To my samurai chest;
No, deeper again,
To where our wagons petrified;
This is the clearing
And this is the song,
A place we are nearing
Where we do not belong;
Here are the stones
And here are the flowers,
Though petals have withered
And the stones block each hour.
They visit here in their hundreds,
Luxury coaches, air conditioning,
One hundred students
With pre-conditioning
And pink pleated curtains.

My meditative ability
Underneath here,
As much as an oyster and eyeless,
Shucked for humanity’s
Gut and its gears.

Time is a spiral
We surf southwards on,
God’s corkscrew pulls out
To produce the Big Bang.

I can tell you, all physicists,
What’s on that other side;
No more nor less
Than my lost love’s
Champagne-scented sky.

Blossoming

Never now exhausted,
Love has blossomed forward,
Through an extreme of seasons,
One by one went by.

Spring’s within the Autumn,
Falls are once more roaring,
And those blossom-oils are pouring
Under pastel-orange skies.

Let’s go for a hairpin drive
To where your love resides,
Somewhere secluded in time
Beyond the woodland outside.

I’d rather a life in near-solitude!
For Nature is all-celebrating
While the cities are just enervating,
But only, love, in solitude with you.

An Exhumation

There were traces of me,
Some burnt vestiges
Found under mulch,
Detritus in strata, then debris.

I didn’t look very much like me,
But the finders were keepers
And they all disagreed.
They could have just left

The stagnant shell of myself
Where I’d slept all those years;
My mouth full of moss, and behind
My green eyes, fern-flooded ears.

After their initial shock
Discovering me in those woods
For a while I wondered
If they could return,

Yet they did, armed with candles
And prayers and books
With scripts I’d unlearned since
There’s nothing to read

With an ego interred.
After they repatriated me
Within the appropriate earth,
All the towns seemed different,

New, not shiny or imbued
With ores, nor for once subdued
By saddening flags and blankets,
Whose seven colours draped

And sometimes secured
Our feelings, through sombre times,
Thankless times, where we found
The end of heaven.

Revolutionary Sky

Skies with deepening greens,
It seemed our worlds had
Turned upside down; seas
Became skies and the skies
Were the sea. No longer
Walking a coastal path,
But somewhere else, no
Erosions, a few other walkers
Enjoying the weekend air,
A jogger in slow motion,
A cat in the woods carrying
A defibrillator pack on its back;
These sights still exist somewhere.
In those clifftop woods we passed
By houses being built, an estate,
With huge Buddhist statues and
Tannoys set to play meditative
Canons while we counted beads
On our japamalas. Then back to
The coast, a dip in the cliff,
A ghost village, where miners
Lived with their hopelessness,
The seams stretched out
Under the ocean bed and which
Are now like cloud-tunnels
In a revolutionary sky.

I found you in a lounge where
Purple wallpaper was decorated
With motifs in black. A room
For the living they called it.
No wonder I felt uncomfortable
In my own skin. You wore a dress
With a crinolette made from
The wishbones of whale and
Eagles’ nests, and overlaid in
The very same purples and blacks
As the patterns on the wall.
You shifted into blueness,
Then exited without a trace;
In my waking day I’m found
Wandering these apocalyptic
Streets and revisiting a sky,
Still here underneath its weight,
Just where you left me.