Sunday, 30 October 2011


I know of a Hoarde,
laid out in the sunshine,
in a vast marsh, in mist-rush
and bird-waden wandering;

I know of this Marsh-Mass,
laid out in the sun,
shining and blinding,
seekers to find ~

Wet ragmen and jugglers
all gaze from the pathways,
logs lain over
the grasp of the mud ~

no boatmen amongst them?
No great Corrach sailor?
Just watch the
light flicker, distanced.

My blood boils
with fire, the shaft,
the Sun spears me,
each droplet blazes

in glory, gold on gold,
silver in silver,
Let me tell of the powers
of these patens and cups...

I know of a Hoarde,
lain out, set by moonlight,
a supper for spirit
and succour by what you sup,

a treasure unheeded,
though forever it's needed,
each comes forth in
the night with sheets wide.

recieve recieve,
not driven by grief,
but recieve, recieve
the free flowing river,

bare branches, writhe, Willows,
stark seeing of truths needing,
a touch of the lips
seals silence, not deceit.

Simple symbols, I was buried in,
to speak in allegory,
you know the truth
behind the words,

and all men become Sailors,
to tread their path towards me,
I am the end of
the rainbow, shot from the sea.

Step onto the Bridge,
search behind all the stars,
Step into the breach,
cowardice take flight,

and bravery come forward,
to speak each mortal piece,
or die whining, cowering,
afraid to raise your eyes -

how would
you have it?

You are the One
that knows your mind -

be your own friend,
your own rock,
your own fool and
your own guide.
I speak of a Bronze blade,
and a hilt of carved amber,
a goblet of silver,
knobbed about by pretty pearls,

I murmur and whisper
over oatcakes, Beloved,
and bless the Barley,
good fishing, good hunting,

take the dagger to Chapel,
the dish proffered will
take the world,
gives forth worlds - !

Strike out with your staff,
magic wanderer, marsh wonderer,
dance in the shallows
and swim for your life -

take the cup, take the cup,
sieze the sword firmly
and stab me to own me,

break the pearls from me,
flake all the gilt from me,
let pure water flow
instead of ill blood.

My humour is manifold,
like shepherded perfection -
a meadow is made by
wise sight of the flood -

just a gate here, a dyke there,
make the wilderness perfect,
but whose design
do you work to, my love?

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