VEIL
Here, embedded in small, lapsed
Suspended moments,
(Gossamer, silk, turning)
Too early, too late,
Webbed with inconclusive dream,
Stirred spirallings, seed of wind and light.
A weighing and disregarding
(The shallow confusions of purpose)
Sense and organs of sense
Bow to slow breath:
The fine, high transformation:
Time into space
Dissolving to time once more
(A thin cloth, this melting memory).
They sing,
Though there is nothing
To sing about,
They turn and wander
Unaccompanied, perfect,
These angels, these spirits,
These exhalations of earth.
A moist dawn air-
News from the sea,
Too soon for Spring,
Yet Spring has begun.
Moving on from now:
An arc of returning gravity
Held, pulled, this roaring love.
The eloquent have learned to
Separate and divide,
A weighing of threes
(These simple roads forgotten).
Coleridge would stir in sleep
Mud, slow drying, on coat and boot,
One fading leaf, one budding stem
Has all the answers
We shall ever need
An we blink
An we stay awake.
The slow sonority-
An old man tastes
The luxury of ancient language,
A fine whiskey
Sweet with smoke and bitterness.
His rhythm is a road across hillsides,
A road into morning.
A fine line
Dividing weeping
And contentment,
As it always is,
As it always
Is.
—
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simonhlilly 