owls
come moon bane and whisper me a song of stealth and owls
run through the forest like a low flung disc
shadowing trees and dreaming of winter
and in the utter despondency of distance
let the mad cows in the open fields
dance under the sprinkling of silver light
and may the light reign of their party words spread
like expanding crowns upon the lea and leaf
to be silenced among the bark and brogue of the dark woods
for i am alone in the viridian forest world of empty shucks
and broad leaved litter autumn red and faded among the roots
sloughed to be among the fibrous catenoid of webs,
the lace veined bract and black earth compost
i have called and called and though the trees recoiled
in their unhappines and made a path for my plaintive wailing
yet no reply except the light of many moons and sundry stars
would ply their sad stroked boughs and moonlit breath
and though the dew like dulcimers played small beads
of joyous timbre yet no song could they elicit
and i fear that you are dead
my artists eye has choked upon the machines of rage
and vitriol has bitten like a thousand fleas
and where my impatient skin once whole is bled with sores
the scabrous beings plague my dreams and lies like chimera
dance the crazy jig the million midges of sweet memory
in the clearing rays of yesterday
and i fear that you are dead
because no words have come about you
only my words like a balm or winding sheet
from the deep spaces of my soul
no words from the hard terrain wherupon your lips
cracked and drained of love have moved entrained and far away
and in the reversal of the million mirrors upon which the midge
admire themselfes have turned your back so many times
upon my memory
and i fear that you are dead
and that rumour of your leaching back into the penumbra
made by moons upon the wooded trunks subsumed into the earth
by which we came fleeting like the visitation of mere ephemera
and the song of owls who leave no song untroubled
and but a feather in their passing