art

we hid all our treasures
by the dulcimer flecked waves of the
blue blue Aegean
as thin as the reeds of sound
that echo upon the beach head
that echo through the stone and chalk channels
through which the currents of the oceans link
the secret world of water
that echo the across the thin layered ethers
by which rich veins of wind blow the airs of the earth
and its laden dust to settle a subtle mantle of a foreign
culture in a foreign land
the echo within the cackling of the fires of plans and parties
of campainings of the then and now
whose dark maps fly to the skies
and whose roasting fruit breach the world of savoured smells
and sweat and soot
the tranquil inshore breeze that uplifts the terns
and the joyous yodelling curlew cry
the distant bark of bitten
wrap the misty grains around the dunes and mounds
the killing grounds lie as desert
as the sands of time
as though they were piled here
from the very glass itself
epic and brooding
as only quiet can be
a quiet without the crass inhalations of man
and his woe begotten posturing
and his loud violence
and his mad or happy verdict
upon those without its need
but his cunning remains crafted
and though the suns of aeon's will melt
or magnify or marginalise its thin proportioned words
they will be etched into the bracts and heather
grass and reed and glint in river beds
and lie secure neath the rounded
tumours of earth and stone

a metaphor for the unique narrative of our art
stands like a ghost upon the beachhead
all tracts washed clear by the small tide
and the ploys of seminal stratagem
the needles of contract and the artisan
have carved from desperate chases and rhetorical conflict
and sobbing loss and aggressive respect
and desperation
the reparation horse
a monolith made of the many bones that lie
speckled, bleached or blanched along the
wet wild strand
a singular totem moulded from the plastic spirits
that fade away in years of wasteful turmoil
art that will not fade away
not fade away