the iron chain is heavy
a burden on my neck
it binds me to an ancient path
made of blood and bones
the bondage of the tribe
it binds me to my roots
when the storms arise
the chain of jade is mystery
cool green glades
where water drips
into a silent lake
in quiet meditation
alone
i sit
i wait
until the sparkling silver chain
leads me through the dark
it captures midnight stars
with flashing moonlit sparkles
that illuminate my heart
and lead my feet away
along the magic path
My dead fathered wandered from his bed
complaining of the cold.
His bed, too empty,
needed my mother for warmth.
I told him, then, return to your bed,
warm it ready for her.
My mother had fallen down.
I lifted her, naked, onto the marriage bed
and ran through the dark night house
seeking her fresh cotton gown.
Children ran through the corridors,
laughing, hiding and seeking,
when they should have been sleeping,
but I let them play
When the blackbird sang in the morning
we went out to feed the horses,
the beautiful, lovely horses,
their warm breath steamed in the air
as the night watchman strolled away.
The courtyards smelled of new-mown hay
in this city of ancient archways.
The theatre people were waking up
and lighting breakfast fires.
In the hall, behind closed doors,
the band tuned up to play.
They played La Marseillaise.
I walked through the city that morning.
I smiled to myself, at the gift of imagination,
and the comfort it always brings,
as the starlings deafened my ears.
there was no need of explanations
when all was accepted and understood
sunlight filled the clearing
a path of soft grass
lead through the wood
the rapids on the river
a source of delight,
exhilaration, excitement
the boat spinning and whirling
a reason for laughter
as we clung closer
what cared we for danger
when in evening we returned
to sit warmly wrapped
at the fireside, together
the paths have become hidden
overgrown with bramble and thorn
twisting back on themselves
the Prince in the fairytale
hacks with his sword
to find his way through
to the sleeping Princess
who waits alone, for a kiss,
only a kiss and a promise,
in stories he is never exhausted
you don’t hear tales of his scars
he always succeeds
what a miracle worker he is
what a wonder to behold
astride his white horse
shining in silver armour
despite the darkness
there is a path where the rich scent
of old fallen leaves fills the air
the banks of this path are cut deeply
amongst the roots of the ancient trees
they hold the path, embraced,
they are not there to trip us
but to keep the way open ahead
the road is old and worn
i sit by the fire in the woodland
all is peace, gentle, quiet, dear,
yet my heart rises to my throat
rises like a spring, a songbird
wings beating, bursting
the well is deep, the moment fleeting
my pulse like water singing
drumming, humming
all fades away on the breeze
even as its golden light glows
shining out in the darkness
known, yet unknown.
home is her, and now.
it comes, it goes, the rose
it comes, it goes, the rose
the wild rose of the woodland
i run, trying to reach it
eagerness grasps only thorns
no perfume, no tender pink heart
better admired where it grows
soft petals shine out in the dark
dark trees loom all around
lost or found it blooms there
where is she in all i seek
she who holds the rose
why does she always leave
turning always to look back at me
she comes, she goes, holding the rose
she comes, she goes, holding the rose
i saw her up on the green hill
weaving in and out of the dance
i bow to her and take her hand
spin her, never win her
that wild, unruly, so gentle glance
as she turns and runs away
always looking back at me
always a footfall further
she haunts me still, never stays
she of the hill and the greenwood
where the paths all lead inward
deeper and ever deeper
into the wood i travel, willingly
into the wood i travel, willingly
this forest so wide and vast
these paths turn on fortunes wheel
darkness and light
all things future, all things past
shadows and clearings
silence and voices
a harp song on the wind
flute and owl hoot
the flash of a birds wing
in the night
i follow the ravens flight
i follow the Raven to the Tower
the gate is locked and barred
the gate is locked and barred
all is empty here
a hollow echo from before
i will not venture in
i stand and feel no fear
the Tower crumbles all to dust
i lay down my ancient sword
my armour turns to rust
my horse is faithful still
i trust to him and the Raven
i will follow his path
it is my own at last
all travellers have a quest
we ride on, finding the way
we ride on to once upon a time
over the hills and far away
where all paths twist back on themselves
always to the greenwood
the distant rainbows end
the treasure at its heart
the place where the rose unfolds
i dream amongst the trees
unafraid of any foe
guarded by a wall of thorns
protected in her circling arms
where all my dreams come true
i will travel on with her
wherever she may go
wherever she goes i will go
i follow in the dance
my pulse like water singing
she of the hill and the greenwood
queen of the shadows and clearings
my armour gleams again
i will be her hero
until my breath gives out
guarded by twisted paths
we rest in peace, with the rose
over the hills and far away
where time will never end
*******
a Corona is a series of sonnets strung together by the repetition of a line
I. The Immigrant
Languishing in a prison, long forgotten,
the shape of music itself, a broken violin.
My eager hands, outstretch for embrace.
I had longed for you for years, missed you
without knowing, a yearning deep in the soul.
Darkly glowing wood, old, mellowed, unloved.
Born in a Saxony village, generations of travel
to land on these shores, unwanted again,
thrown out when friendships died.
Bridge collapsed, one hanging string,
bow, shredded wisp of a white horse tail.
You lay hidden, cast out, forgotten,
a tramp in a gypsy encampment.
II. The Vow
I remembered you. My blood thrilled.
Ancient wood restored, all molecules aligned,
by the strong hand of the bow.
Your exhilaration echoed beside my ear,
double stopped strings reverberating,
the leap to the high exalting note,
expressing, completing, every wish in my heart
from sorrow at beauty to a wild need to dance.
I vowed to honour you, gave you devotion.
I knew you could sing, sing for me,
by the constant stroke of the bow
III Discipline
Scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat,
scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat.
Again! Become a master, with a gentle hold,
never grip, however strong the heat.
This flower is tender, this horse is wild.
Circle the bow in the jig, keep it bright.
Hold the bow slow and steady, dreaming child,
as poignancy stretches through twilight to night.
Wake me at dawn. To repeat.
IV – The Sonnet
Humming like a honey-bee,
dark throated wood, a deep forest note,
a salmon leaping a waterfall in silver light.
The clear cry of the lark in summer.
Sun on a high mountain, clouds,
a deep pool in a wide sweep of valley,
sparkles, shadows, the whirling dance,
the wild hunt and the flame.
Ecstatic violin. My lifting heart.
All these paths we took together
as I paced the floor, always circling,
unable to be still when you sang.
You kindled a spark in my blood
as sweet as a love affair
Hollow
Above the frozen water meadow winter sunlight flashes
frail birches stand in line, a guard against the traffic,
their silvered arms outstretched above the dying rushes.
Icy wind blows bitter from the east, fills my eyes with tears.
The trees, in faint whisper, sighing, leaning,
speak of vanished woodlands they will never know
Far away, in the West, two hundred miles and more,
a brook bubbles, dancing, sings in a hidden hollow.
Twisted oaks, clothed in moss and lichen, entwined with ivy,
born of wilful acorns, rooted in ancient rock, remain undaunted.
From dawn to dusk, the air is full of bird song until the owl hoots.
Peace surrounds, enfolds, and, with night, bewitches.
I stand on this path at the side of the road
gaze at the birch trees, the sunset spread behind them.
This place is so empty.
The Dreaming Path 