like lace these fragile flapping wings,
new born from the chrysalis, pale butterfly
drying under a yellow sun, bright burning
full of life, vibrant, short lived, time burning
stretching out its virgin wings
clinging to a tender stem, this butterfly
climbing upward to your journey, butterfly
prepare to fly away, as I, burning
with desire to touch, with care, your wings
an awful thought, lost dust, wings burning, butterfly
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
kept behind glass, protected from dust
her painted face stares out with blank eyes
her fine silks faded by sunlight and years
she was bought to this house by a sailor
a gift from a far away port, long ago
picked up when he thought of his woman
waiting for him with patience back home
the china doll was a token a love
kept for years in a kit bag in war
she is a survivor of many sea battles
with never a mark on her beautiful face
but he went away and never came back
the china doll is all that is left
she has been easy enough to preserve
his life was as fragile as the china doll looks
the china doll stands on a shelf in the corner
while all around her life comes and goes
she is changed now from token to heirloom
her origins forgotten, no longer known
Secret rooms, hidden behind walls,
books, red cushions and a chair,
visited in dreams, well known.
Narrowed passageways and stairs
climb above the twisted chimney stacks.
They rise like curling smoke, a spiral.
Doors that open inward lead out to
the dove cote, fountain, walls of mossy stone,
pathways, apple trees and pears.
At last I leave this house.
Beyond the gate
the island, slate and jagged rocks,
a swaying broken bridge in sighing wind,
a fragile home of glass and salted timber.
High tides beat against it, retreating in a spray.
A window cracks. I am not afraid.
The lighthouse calls out through the fog,
receding echoes that return again,
a sound that swings around the bay.
In dreams, when I am swept away,
the waiting house remains.
The Dreaming Path 