Vore Tullye

The cruel, beautiful Atlantic 
cries 
and crashes 
and sings 
and I hear the lament of a willow harp.
Played on a rock rising up from the white foam
of the spaces in between;
Lost things.

We are born from all of our Islands
and the days of April have passed, now.

And yet the darkness spills out, still.
Floating up from the Ocean floor;
in the half light of morning.

I wander along a once lit coastline,
forgetting how to read these sacred writings.

But then I find your hands,
even through the thick haar.

And once again I can just make out
the soft glow 
of lanterns; 
filled with Light.

Bells

When the morning came,
I dreamed of circles and lines;
children starting to race
as grey turns into colour,
softly.

The sky is volcanic:
-red
-chaotic
-strong
(as I await the Season's gifts,
impatiently.)

I hold my breath as the
window
is opened
wider now
and wider still;
October's
crescent moon
sings to Jupiter
with precious joy;
reflection and melancholy.

My geese shall return, soon
and I shall celebrate
at break of dawn;
with bells.
Alone in my very own meadow;
dancing as the snow falls once again,
from a canopy of Winter stars.

White

The sound of harp strings
as the stillness of rain
leaves the creaking room
filled with starlight.

There are so many things that I have never told you.
Secrets 'neath a grey woolen blanket.
The Winter Sun holds her Wisdom
in a beautiful wooden box;
creating dandelions we can never, ever pick.

Our paths dance the same shapes;
circles born from golden light/
stars from darkness deep.

The morning light brings reverent quiet
as the World unfurls her Joys like an open fern.
Words spill out like white blossoms from above;
Stars on Earth.

I lie down under a sky of patchwork blue
and wish for Snow geese.

O'er the sky

I want to be your North star.
And hold your hand as the winds howl loud.
To lie with you as the geese are told,
That it is time to fly.

I shall wait for you 'til November is home,
And watch the skies turn to pink.
I will wrap you up in the morning's dew,
And send my love on the waves.

You are the light that shines o'er the sky.
Your name I cannot let go.
Your hands hold all that I long to know.
I am your wand'ring star

Night

You find me
as starlight
finds its way
through the darkest of skies.
Hope.

We are the most ancient
of all mysteries,
and yet
-I know you,
from a night long before stardust
spilled out its secrets;
bonds.

We dance carefully 
over our past lives
and the chaos of the moment
but all that our eyes
prepare for is the future.

You read my face like a sheet of old words;
deeper than our darkening Atlantic.

Then you lead me high up a lost hill
and leave me to climb down, alone.

And yet we meet at the top, once again
and slowly begin to accept,
-we cannot stand taller than that truth
which gives the world her turns;
spinning.

The moon shines his Wisdom down
on a morning filled with starlings
and new Joy.

Hues

Confusion spills out from goethean blue 
and i cease to accept the ordinary. 
Leaves dance like circus girls under cream and red canvas; 
movements under moonlight. 

The last moments so beautiful and yet you stayed,
 up a set of vibrating stairs 
-in a room that had first been empty and then turned younger than the autumn in her unveiling . . . 

You should have came back underground 
and talked of foxes
with me;
in the night.

Turn

Inside the depths of that cave
of cloth-sack and Amish devotion
I can see the dragon's handiwork;
cunning and covert.

We all wear red,
and turn inwards
as small children
dance in a circle
with their sticks
and their song
and their fear.

They twirl and they tap and they turn;
like leaves in the thunderstorm
we all awakened to on the worst day yet.

We have forged something beautiful together,
in spite of all the darkness.

Autumn has arrived, in all her resplendent glory;
bringing unity, trust and stillness in her cloak.

We each hold our chosen stone close to our hearts;
painted and heavy and found.
They are there for when the darkness comes back,
in small, sharp shards;
like glass fallen from hidden clouds.

But we have begun to mould this blackness, together.
Learning ways to use our hands to make things right.

I no longer find figures cowering behind wooden blocks.

Now I see beautiful Warriors;
tall as oak trees
and as magnificent as Michael,
in all his splendor.