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Posts Tagged ‘reflection’

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Rhiannon’s Riddle

These my bare branches,
These the days of moonlit silence.
Seven are the ones lost to sleep
That should have been watchful
That should have been truthful.
A claw of cloud has stolen
my golden light, my golden sun.
I am sunk down by it and sullied,
Weighed by each retelling.
Bound again by careless generosity,
Bound by those not blameless.
An open honesty shall allay my worry,
And watchful bravery and a clear discrimination.
The hunter has risen and taken my firstborn light.
I am become wolf tied to stone,
Wandering the same road
Weighed down by it.
At night, the high table of the feast.
Neither here, neither there,
This road of travail, this cloak of flesh.
Golden is the harvest moon,
Birdsong of the morning.
All is fog
And my bright boy is gone.
The son eaten by the mother,
The mother deceived by her sisters
The hunter and his prey, taken, restored.
Pay attention Pwyll!
What is yours, is illusion.
Deeper by far is the world you walk.
My heartache is in this coming and going,
Half the time here, half the time
In a somewhere else,
more, or less, reflected perfect.
I will wait for you though.
Wait another year on year.
You shall only need to ask,
Only listen.
The footsteps beneath the ground,
The silver paths.
It shall all find return.

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NO QUESTION

This is it:
The reflection
Of your being.
This room,
Quiet,
morning bright.

This window,
Filtering sound,
Slowing light,
Holding colours.

This view:
Veils of sun and rain,
Small birds blustered by.

Something special
In its commitment to itself.
But unremarked, unremarkable.

This patterning of storm cloud:
Unimaginable, dissipating,
Casual omnipotence.

This sequence of days:
Rosary of heartbeats,
Rosary of tears.
A meditation on dreaming
And waking.

Seeded by other’s autumnal self-reflections, particularly Masqua’s Art…..

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COUNTING MOONS

The moon tonight gliding through the eye of the Bull.
On the horizon light is still holding,
And thrushes, too full of Spring to sleep,
Echo song across the valley.

Why should I record this?
One day among many.
Nothing remarkable
In this new season’s freshness
( except our own common forgetfulness
Lost in weighted, judged moments).

I could give you a year of moons,
Some seen, some clouded, some serene or dreadful,
Meticulously recorded, patinated silver,
Its light cold, warm, diffuse, reticulated.
Its shape swinging this way then that,
Its rising between house and tree, hill and hedge.
Its mirror face reflecting clearly every tide of passion and despair,
Its mirror face pulling eye and heart to hold all souls aloof,
Quietly cooling, pulse and breath shifting, shivering slightly,
As if a gong brushed by a breeze, sounding sounding low.

A pool, silent.
A way in and a way out.
A door, a window, swinging open, slamming shut.
Lightening, darkening, reasonably equinanimous.
Unconcerned, ineffable, a mouth trying out new sounds,
Consonant and vowel shaping words that all mean silence,
That all mean liquid, that all mean holding, pouring, filling, emptying.

Just now, I can think of nothing more full of satisfaction,
Nothing more worthwhile,
Absolute evidence of time well spent,
Dutifully attentive, a garland for creation’s gifts,
Harmless, meaningless, a simple offering,
A counting of breaths, proof of life.

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