there you lay
in your cradled bed
unable to move
hair thin,
skin frail,
bones sagging,
your eyes open
but, so far away
perhaps you are where i
remember you best,
smiling,
on your knees on the carpeted floor,
round, radiant summer skirt,
spread about like a pool
Sharp-tongued, bad-tempered,
Baleful with knowledge,
Ambitious witch,
A fervent desire burns in her eyes.
With charms written backwards,
She gives us long tasks.
We perform.
It’s her will.
We sit at the cauldron stirring dark liquids
As moons chase sun after sun from the hills.
The cauldron is split.
She screams in her fury.
Vicious elixir spills out on the land
Poisoning horses,
Parching the lake.
All of her wishes taken from her.
Disappointed, tyrannical mother,
Who spurs on her children, as if to their ruin,
Giving, by this, the magical spark
The three precious drops
Bright knowledge and wisdom
Three drops to shine in the pitiless dark.
For this she will chase you.
Chase you through dreams.
There is no escape from her dark self-esteem
Turning to meet her, tired of the race,
Looking the dark hag straight in the face
My eyes newly opened
I see there another
A goddess
A mother
Spinning a wheel and harvesting grace.
Beneath her dark robes is a glimmering brightness,
A fire that transforms, ignites and inspires.
Her curse marks the path to all of her blessings
And opens the way to visions of light
At the heart of this beautiful chalice of night.
here she is, playing tennis
powerful serves slice the air
the leap across the court to save
the forceful twack of backhand grace
her skin aglow with summers sun
dancing on the well kept lawns
her dark eyes, dark hair, her pixie face
lit with pleasure in the moment,
of care or trouble, not a trace,
her family are around her, close,
the world’s too fast
now her face is lined with care
her family history written there
years have passed, flesh has failed
long lost father, mother, aunts and uncles
her lover was the last to go
they surround her now in dreams
they gather to her in the night
her only pleasure is a book
with writing big enough to read
back lit by the Kindle light
in the midst of a storm of thunder
when hail stones fell from dark skies
a child came crawling to me
he came to me from his mother
sent into my protection
he was little more than a babe
i stopped and stooped to lift him
i looked into his soft little face
i saw bright eyes full of wonder
he seemed made of wonder and grace
i placed him onto my back
i told him to cling very tight
but he flung himself backward to earth
beyond where my hands could reach
i turned and raised him again
held him in tender embrace
i explained he had to be strong
for a journey
arduous
long
but we’d be safe
in the end
he smiled at me
like a friend
In the street
a little boy
bends down.
He found a pebble
”Stone!”he cries,
in sheer delight,
reacting as an angel might,
his face illuminated
”Amazing news!”
his mother says.
She smiles at him,
thinking she’s the wise one
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.
The Dreaming Path 