THE PERFECT MEMORY
Chapel oak frames the bright morning.
Crow’s wings: black, white, black, in the early sun.
I have reached into perfect memory
And drawn out a continuous stream,
Beyond names, beyond form.
A song from the bright, wondrous world.
.
My heart is burst into four,
Sundered and cast again into gold.
It hangs by threads strong enough for eternity.
Morning now as hushed as breath of nine maidens.
The slow, rotating mists that rise and sigh.
This summit cannot be reached by thought,
But by the rhythm of steady walking.
It goes beyond names, it goes beyond forms.
.
We have moved beyond safety in the ship of chant.
The confederacy of the senses murmurs in discontent.
Currents and cross-tides and the hidden lands beneath
Steer us whether we choose or not.
It has always been so: these sea roads as fixed as stars
And the stones that measure them staring from the shoreline cliffs.
.
A year and a day: that shall be the last feast.
Months-long travel for the final gathering of memory.
The sowing of seed, the tilling of the soil, the hiding of light.
The letting go, the letting go.
Bones buried, doors locked.
.
Pink thrift on the foreshore.
The horizon unsullied.
We shall sink down in grief here.
Washed away, washed away.
.
White crow, black crow, of perfect recollection.
Beyond names, beyond forms.
We are all gathered up –
The long roads mapped between stars,
The final feast where all is swallowed up.
.
Bright are the beams of its hall.
Its fires, a delight, and its succour complete.
Light and dark the chapel oak holds firm.
Vast are the teachings within silence.
—
simonhlilly 