simonhlilly

THERE, THE CHAPEL YEW

Three nights now the clatter whisper
Ricochet words follow fade of breath.

A landscape sloped and skittered:
One old tree, small in its alloted bounds
Hunkered, curled tight about its heart.

Webbed taught, knotting stone to iron
Grown from bones, grown from bones.

Where all reach skywards and open
Wind, rain, cloud, jackdaw, hawk,
Where the wild, freed leaf flies,
Where it forgets itself
Where it can taste new names.

It will bend down, bend down low,
Not caring, delving to the smallest
A jewel of dust, the truest glimmer,
Wish to be nothing other than this:

A long vowel hummed, light in darkness,
Tongue spilled, an ejaculation this stringed
Taut, eloquent ivy, fearlessly veined
A clothing for the other, braced and measured.

It ripples blindly about its subject
Blinked and blinded, the brightest termination
An alluded something spaced hauntingly.

Resolutely peripheral, as all living things are wont.
Unbeknownst, uncontained, avoiding rigour
Vaguely rivered, an unassuming continence,
A this and a that and a wealth in shadows.

In sleep, only, can come communicated equivalence,
The monitors drowsed and edges blunt.
Something akin to a sleepy reaching love
A convolution wordless felt and melted
Inhabiting the same dream, a sometimes,
An always and forever, harboured together:
Ocean Mind waved and curled.