LLEU’S FLOWERS
These days, though I hardly close my eyes,
the dreaming words of my mouth
are the sea all things seem to float upon.
Time shifts and slows but moves as winds and rivers
over the fog-washed mountains and away.
Slim chance of anything better
than a cool oblivion in green woodland.
Little hope of acceptance for all
when our leaders glance sideways, checking exits
and their scripted equivocations.
Little has been learned, war is still the best hope:
a simple reason to wipe it all away.
Avoidance of doing good, we prefer instead outrage,
needing vast and sudden emotion to feel alive.
We were vessels for immortality,
though no longer immortal ourselves,
our minds wedded to mud and angels.
It may be days before the prophecies settle and nest.
Or it may be that this turbulent nonsense will grow and grow
until we do not notice it any more,
becoming content with an artificial intelligence,
considering it an apogee
and not the abject failure of the power of human love.
Who shall sing us down from the rotting tree?
Who bother to search us out and sing us down
to a new and whole body on the green earth?
—
The mountain’s breath.
Dark rivers hiss, touched by starlight.
Owls are dreaming with eyes wide open.
Small things appear and dissappear.
A spiral silence weaves upon itself.
This oak feeds upon my shattered fragments.
The fire burns low.
The mind of man steps out of sight.
A low tide roars.
—
simonhlilly 