Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
David Champion Oct 2017
On a windswept beach
Someone has been tied to a stake,
Abandoned to the sea and the elements.

His eyes are squinting
Against the harsh light.

He has been stripped naked
And his skin is burnt and raw.

His lashings are biting into his flesh
As his body is battered by the ocean winds.

Scourged by flying sand and salt,
Every gale blows something of him away.

Every day, there is less of him...
Soon, there will be nothing left
But the stake and a tattered skeleton.
David Champion Apr 2017
How you welcomed
The creak of my oars
In your silent waters!
You had waited so long,
For this first visitor.

You enticed me
Into the shadows
Of your black poplars
And tangled vines,
Where lay hidden
Your pristine temple.

By day and by night
You entertained me
At your altar,
And I, like a captive
Suppliant at your feet,
Attended your loneliness.

But I grew weary
Of your mysteries and rites,
And despite your tears
And pleading looks,
took to sitting alone
And gazing out to sea.

What years have I dreamt away
On your time-lost island?
But now, I am awakening,
The tide is changing,
And a rising breeze
Stirs my ship at her moorings.

I am leaving the stillness
Of your groves and caverns.
Your sanctuaries,
And your secrets,
Detain me no longer,
I yearn for home.

I am Ulysses,
Did you think to keep me
In your world of death forever?
David Champion May 2020
You are so ready to help others
Escape their dark labyrinths,
Only to be abandoned
On a lonely island,
Where you wait
To fall into the arms
Of yet another drunken sot.

Daughter of a cruel king,
High Priestess
Caressed by sacred snakes,
You gave all this away
To follow a man
Who promised you everything,
Then used you heartlessly.
Now another approaches,
Will he give you what you want?

No! You must recover your lost snakes,
Your mysteries and power,
Begin to believe again
In your sacred rites,
Re-build your temple
On your solitary island.
It may seem bleak,
But it is yours.
Do not give it away yet again.
David Champion Sep 2017
'Tis now we live, and only now, the rest

Is fantasy, or memory at best.

The moment is but a flower of transient beauty,

Which colours and scents our world without behest.



So caught was I in daily stress and strife,

The years passed by their loss unfelt, nor grief,

Unnoticed moment's petals dropped and died.

Would think I'd been asleep for all my life.



And then a window opened in my mind,

Had always been there veiled by a blind,

I woke! That instant all came clear at last.

One moment left my many years behind.



A single step, a crack! All fell away.

Above a foaming torrent I hung that day,

My desperate fingers slowly losing grip,

Mere moments left to live, no time to pray.



But strange! I 'found myself', while dangling there,

Cold sweat of terror on the mountain air,

To a rotten footbridge clinging in great fear,

Heart beating hard soul facing Death's despair.



A swift glance down, I trembled at the sight,

The chasm fell sheer each side in rocky might,

And far below a wild and rocky river,

All I could do was cling. Think of my plight!



O fear that had me shaking hand and knee,

At the sight of my appalling destiny,

How was it that this bridge so fragile now,

When for so long had seemed so strong to me?



Truth to tell it was a shock to know,

The neglected bridge had become decrepit so,

It's timbers cracked and missing many treads,

Nothing to save me from the rocks below.



And so I hung above the abyss dread,

Unable to take a further step ahead,

It surely is man's fate to finally fall,

A broken body in Death's dismal bed.



For do we ever reach the farther shore,

Without we fall into Death's waiting maw?

That oblivion awaits us all is Life's predict,

How then make meaning of the final door?



For what is Life but a bridge across a canyon,

The way we cross it thus we measure man.

So Reader, learn from my life's fatal flaw,

Take Death's awareness as your life-companion.



His presence in your life should you embrace,

Remembered well the realities you face,

Thus will stay alive your sharpened senses,

And make full meaning of your life's essay.



Ensure you keep in mind the dread Abyss,

Not to live your life in full would be remiss,

Live well the precious moments of each day.

Be sure to smell each flower along your Way.
The Rubaiyat is a Persian poetic form of several quatrains, often in iambic pentameter, and having a rhyming pattern of a,a,b,a.
David Champion Sep 2017
Ah! Life! What can it possibly mean, my friend?
Tell me, before I off to Heaven send.
For wondering, tho' it furrows deep my brow,
At least it is some means of time to spend.

So many questions seem no answers for,
No matter how I pound upon the door,
The doorman may be deaf, or perhaps the lack
Of a secret password missed he must deplore.

An 'Open Sesame' to Aladdin's cave,
Would give me all the answers that I crave,
For answers must be there, this much I know,
Or the fabric of the Universe is betrayed.

So many of us stand in similar plight,
Poets and philosophers day and night,
Waiting with an empty cup in hand,
Pleading - "Fill my cup and give my mind respite."

But knowledge is a trick, it seems to me,
For which 'reduction' is an illusory key,
For if reduced from whole what then is left?
For the whole is where resides the mystery.

I think of Heidegger's 'Being and Time',
A mighty, detailed argument, for mine,
Would discard the answer with the argument,
If it were to be reduced to a single line.

So if we are to know by what Life's meant,
Must journey through its joy and discontent,
For what reduction would do for understanding,
Is reduce the meaning of our Life's content.

That which we've done, our battles won and lost,
When weighed upon Life's ledger as a cost,
What matters then our deeds when all is done,
If into the grave with us our deeds are tossed?
The Rubaiyat is a Persian poetic form of several quatrains, often in iambic pentameter, and having a rhyming pattern of a,a,b,a.
David Champion Oct 2017
Alone in your ***,
Your roots cruelly clipped and trimmed,
You are diminished.

How windswept you look,
Your gnarled limbs styled and designed
To create mere mood.

No longer are you
A tree with limbs stretching free,
Spreading your wild seeds.

No wind stirs you now,
No longer a home for birds
Your being's reduced.

Bound to cruel fashion
Like a Chinese woman's feet,
You have been enslaved.

Mere decoration,
Nature becomes artefact
Tamed to appear wild.

So does the artist
Clip imagination when
Bowing to fashion.

So does the artist,
In serving gods of style,
Diminish himself.
Written in haiku form with a 5/7/5 syllabic structure.
David Champion Oct 2017
Driving in the dark,
Headlights on the road ahead,
Black night lies beyond.

My world is the car,
In the warmth of the cabin,
The instrument's glow.

The headlight's beam shows
The road streaming by smoothly
In endless long lines.

A tunnel of light,
Hypnotic pairs of cats-eyes
Curving towards me

Resonating with
The engine's harmonic drone,
Mesmerising me.

Night in the mirror,
And ahead beyond the light,
The unknown darkness.

Existence draws in,
To the road in the light's beam,
And inside the car.

The present moment,
Of the car and the lit road,
Is all that exists.

Driving in the dark,
Our cars never leave the light,
Stay in the present.

The rest is darkness,
There is no past or future,
Just imaginings.

Everyone exists
In the light of the present,
Driving in the dark.
Written in haiku form with 5/7/5 syllabic structure.
David Champion Oct 2017
When the lights dim into darkness,
Then sneaks in on shifty legs
the Puppet-Master.

Curtains drawn the show commences,
On strings our limbs begin to ****
To the pull of unseen forces.

We become Punch or Judy,
Unlovable and unloved,
Unmoved to love another.

For when our souls
Are draped in darkness,
Love’s wisdom is lost.

Only when we wake once more
Are we able to remember
The remedy for this malady…

To open our wounded hearts,
For the Puppet-Master shrinks away
From the light of an open heart.
David Champion Mar 2018
If only,

I could find a crack in that canvas,

Pry it apart

Peer through,

And see the other painting

I know must be there,

The painting that has to be more real

Than the one in the gallery,

The one you painted,

That deft piece of forgery,

The painting that everyone passes by.



If only

I could find a crack

In that canvas

On which you painted my portrait,

Maybe someone would stop and take notice.
David Champion Sep 2017
Who would you become
If the character you played
Appeared before you?
David Champion Oct 2017
The least-loved actor on the stage,
She is as beautiful as the moon

... and just as pale.

She stands alone in the spotlight,
Surrounded by darkness

... with the courage to feel.

She is real, honest and truthful,
In this theatre of shadows and lies

... her tears are no act.
David Champion Aug 2017
Skin as white as snow,

Lips and cheeks as red as blood,

Her raven-black hair.



Two become parents

Because a girl-child arrives,

And changes their lives.



No mirror will show

How children create parents

And problems for all.

But Narcissus knows
That mirrors only show us
What’s empty inside.

Lives come to impasse.

And the child must find herself,

Alone in the woods.



The lonely hunter,

Comes to rescue the princess,

And becomes her prince.



Red blood on the snow,

****** innocence gone,

Desire fulfilled.



Two become parents

Because a girl-child arrives,

And changes their lives.



Skin as white as snow,

Lips and cheeks as red as blood,

Her raven-black hair.
David Champion Jul 2017
From the hill where we live,
We noticed the sea changing,
Growing darker by the day,
And then realised it was rising.

Was it the tide? we asked,
But no-one knew,
And the sea continued to darken,
And continued to rise.

Then one morning,
Opening the front door,
We found the sea
Lapping at our doorstep,

It had covered all the houses,
The roads and the trees.
From our doorstep to the horizon
Stretched the sea.

It was like it had always been there
And we had not noticed it before,
It’s surface smooth and unbroken,
Dark as night.

Nothing was to be heard,
No seagull’s shrieking.
People’s cries for help
Must have been swallowed by the night.

There was only the dark sea,
And silence.
And we, standing at its edge,
Waiting.
One day we awaken and realise death is approaching us... or was it the realisation we were failing to live?
David Champion Mar 2018
When you said the awful words,
What I thought was real,
That beautiful sky
Which seemed to stretch away forever
Into distant poetic and dreamy landscapes,
Began to crack,
And the Abyss,
The dreaded pit of nothingness,
Broke open with a terrifying shriek,
And as it gaped
A wind rose up,
And all that was beautiful,
All that was joyful,
All that was lovely to the soul
And delightful to the eye,
Was swept into the hellish maw
Leaving only dark despair behind.

When you said the awful words,
What I thought was real
Was revealed as nothing
But a beautifully painted surface
Covering the too grim truth
Of emptiness.
David Champion Oct 2017
Our books are mingled,
Hers and mine,
Messed up
Between each other,
Some never opened,
Their pages still pristine,
Some dog-eared and *****.

My biography of Plath,
My Byron,
My poetry and art,
Are hard to find
Between her ****** fictions
And coffee-table tabloids
In lurid colours.

Her crimes and her romances,
Lying evidence
Pushed hurriedly
Out of sight
Between the covers,
On which is inscribed
The name of the one
She nominates
To take the rap,
As if 'She'
Had never authored anything.

And these left
Lying around the house
For me to pick up
And put back
In the same place.

One day I'll bin the lot!
David Champion May 2017
Standing inside my window,
I overlook the sea,
Its wild distant waves,
Are scattered with spray and rime
While rain squalls bluster,
Whip the coastal scrub,
And beat against the window,
Shaking it before me.

This is clarity,
Coldly far-sighted and real.
There is nothing to shield me
From the bleakness outside,
Of cold wind and rain,
But a shaking window pane.

And I am in and out,
Of a related,
Experience of my mind,
An inner clarity,
Of certain feelings,
Where my own inner landscape
Is just as cold and wild,
Where in great moments,
Long and expansive enough
For a lone eagle's flight,
Across a deep vast,
There opens the emptiness
Of an unremitting view
That expands forever,
Across a shadowless plain
Of unfeatured freedom,
Depriving my limbs
Of knowing where to take me,
For with such clarity,
Potency leaves me,
And everything approaches
An equalised tension,
Color dissolving,
In the unforgiving light
Into clear and starker,
Hues of black and white.

At such confronting moments
Of intensified light,
I want sfumato,
Where illusion emerges
And magical stillness
Of poetic dreams,
A satyr seems to appear,
From dark forest shadows,
Or was it a dream?
Just flickering light and shade?

In art's uncertainties,
My soul gains relief,
Softened by chiaroscuro,
From which deep shadow
Imagination rises to
Soften and obscure,
To blur the harsh edges
Of reality,
Removing the objective
Towards much safer realms
Of a personal
World of subjectivity,
Sensation becoming
Perception in which
The natural is surpassed,
Becomes the poetic,
The spiritual,
And so the everyday world
Then becomes enchanted,
Synonymous with
The illusionary world
Of art's poetic forms,
The colours of it,
All its singing harmonies,
All its sublime beauties,
That work together,
To form a poetic whole.

But behind this window pane,
I am bleak and dismal,
Stripped of the comfort
Of heart-warming illusion,
And bleakness clings to me
Like a cold wet shirt,
Exposing my nakedness,
The cruelly torn edges
Of a soul emptied
Of all joy and all beauty,
My soul, that part of me
Of which I was sure,
And was my certain refuge
From all the furrowed brows
Of the harried world
From which I come to this place.

Is this bleak journey my path?
The one that will lead me
Back to my own self?
That beautiful part of me
I somehow lost touch with
So long ago now.
Where can I hope to find it,
Along this stony path,
This lonely drear place?
Yet, am I truly alone?
For did you not promise
You would be with me,
My companion on this path?
That thought has sustained me,
But you are not here!
Was it just your faithless words?

And now, after this longing
For embracing shadows,
To comfort my soul,
The weather has closed right down,
And comes in gloomily,
Limiting visibility,
And now the light is poor,
And a swirling rain-storm
Makes the house shudder,
Lashing the window near me,
And flying off the roof,
In clouds of cold spray.

Thank you, Higher Beings all,
For your keen diligence
In sending to me
These clouds of cold spray and rime.
But, instead of the angst
And uncertainty
Of this cursed clarity,
Another squall of rain
Was not in my mind…

You knew what I had in mind.
David Champion Oct 2017
The danger of writing...

allow a single word

to appear on your blank screen

and it will call up its associates, 

many of which will not be your friends, 

and like mobsters, 

may take you on a journey 

you would rather not be having. 



The danger of writing...

especially at certain times,

times of vulnerability,

when a particular  image,

like this image that now confronts my mind 

- that of an empty double seat overlooking a river -
might evoke a provocative word.



I know where this is going...



Do not allow a single word to appear! 


Keep staring bleakly 
at the empty screen.



But the word appears

on the screen of my mind,

impossible to avoid

at five o’clock in the afternoon,

the winter sun descending, 

the biting edge of cold dusk

settling into my soul.



Emptiness... 

Life passing relentlessly, 

second by second,

a river that never stops. 



The curse of consciousness... 

its inescapable loneliness. 



The river...

painful past to the left, 

anxious future to the right, 

the present 
moment
drowning in its cold swirling waters.



The emptiness of another evening

of another empty day...

the comfort of a drink, 

and then another. 



Mindless chattering of TV voices...

voices of ghosts, 

illusions,

disconnected 
from the warmth of a body.



The warmth of a body...

the empty double seat. 



A passing car...

silence.



The cat... 

padding across bare floorboards

wanting food.



Wanting...

the empty double seat, 

needing the warmth of a couple. 



Needs...

harshly exposed, 

like a line of naked corpses 

waiting on dissecting tables.



Longing...

for a woman to sit beside me, 

to contemplate a shared river. 



The empty double seat...


The river flowing away
as relentlessly
 as a poem of desolation

started by a single word.
David Champion May 2017
A door has opened and open stands
Beside the path where once a wall
Of stone had stood and no path led
But the known one stretching straight ahead.

My journey stopped I stand perplexed,
A door has opened and open stands,
Its invitation calling me
To explore a place of mystery.

I feel my breath come quickly now,
My heart is pounding in my chest,
A door has opened and open stands
And I know not what would be best.

For if it closes I would lose
This chance to wander verdant lands
Of beauty that inspires my soul…
A door has opened and open stands.
__________
In using the quatrain form, I was inspired by 'Where Fingers Bled' by Winn, a beautifully evocative poem.
David Champion May 2017
___________

As a child, there was a place that was
so deeply familiar to me
that I never had to think
about it, for it was simply there,
and in it I lived quite happily, alone,
but, as the long summer of my childhood
began to turn to a more turbulent season,
I somehow lost the way there, and
even the memory of that place
slowly faded from my mind
until no trace of it was left.

Many years passed, until as a man
at the cross-roads of his life, and feeling
a deep need to commune with nature,
and for the peace of solitude, and a need
to escape the narrow streets of the city,
I took to walking alone in the country-side.
Thus it was, as I was wandering, one day,
in a lonely forest, that I became lost
in a dark and unfamiliar place,
and, while searching for the way
through thick and tangled foliage,
I came across an overgrown path,
long unused, and followed it, in the hope
that it may lead me to where
I could recover my direction.
But the path led on, and on, and deeper in,
until I came to a place, that,
like the faintest waft of a long forgotten aroma,
a memory buried deeply in my soul was stirred.

There was a high wall overhung with branches, a place
that might easily have passed unnoticed, most of the wall
being lost to sight beneath a mass of vegetation
clinging to its stony cracks and ledges,
creeping, and twining, and flourishing there,
tendrils of new growth, ivy, and jasmine,
fragrant in the warmth of the sun,
reached out greenly above dead and tangled
undergrowth, such was the age of the wall,
and climbing roses, whose pink buds,
swayed weightlessly in a gentle breeze.

Noticing another detail, strangely familiar,
I pushing though the foliage towards it,
to find, half-hidden in the shadows, an ancient gate,
set back within two great stone pillars,  
atop each of which was an urn, cracked and old
and encrusted with lichen and wound round with ivy,
suggesting that this gateway had been lost
for centuries, and suggesting, also,
where the rusted bars reached up
becoming lovely twisted forms and leafy shapes
wrought by some long-forgotten artisan,
ancient craft and, more, a deep love of workmanship.

Deep and long-lost memories began to stir in me,
and grow, both with a rising sense of joy
and filled with wonder, yet, disbelief
that this could really be, which sharpened
further my senses, and I somehow,
managed to turn the rusted latch,
and though the heaviness of the gate
resisted me at first, put my weight against it firmly,
until it creaked slowly inwards on its stiff hinges,
and, as spellbound as a child, I stepped through
into the calm and peace of a place
I knew as deeply as myself,
a place that had remained unchanged,
these many years, like a once-loved part of myself,
so long neglected and found anew.

Inside this lovely place, there was a soft
silence broken only by occasional bird-calls,
ringing and sounding, and the murmur of the breeze.
Where once I had chased butterflies, wildly leaping,
I was now filled with stillness, and gazed
around in awe, with more reflective, yet no less
wondering eyes than a child would have,
into this lovely garden, and up into the
soft and leafy canopy crisply illuminated overhead
in greens and golds, and the deeply shadowed places,
below the trees, and the lawns and fragrant flower-beds,
flecked with colour and dappled with the sun,
and at the light itself, the clarity of which
seemed to expand my mind, leading to thoughts
of a greater grandeur existing in this place,
with all its forms of beauty so lovely
as to lighten the heart, which, burdened
by the cares of a demanding careless world
had so long cried out for peace and solitude.

I followed the path, which went inward,
and then sloped down to where wide stone steps
wound steeply down in places, and statues,
half-hidden in the shadowed bushes, of Pan,
and woodland nymphs, and a satyr,
green with moss and lichen, emerged
like old friends to greet me as I descended,
now beneath towering elms which formed a high vault,
through which the divinely lovely light
streamed down in rays, as from the transept windows
in a dimly-lit cathedral, and then
I stepped out of this semi-shadowed place
into the sunlight where wide lawns,
bordered by beds of lilies and purple irises,
sloped down to a mirrored lake.  

There, on a headland, stood
a small temple shining white in the sunlight,
the round Greek tholos, that I knew so well,
a place of coolness on a hot day, a place
of calm and perfect beauty, where,
as a child, sitting on its steps, I would
dangle my feet in the water, sending
ripples across the lake to fracture
the reflected colours of the willows
on the opposite bank, or feed the swans.
So, here I sat, once more, so many years hence,
a grown man, with all the reflections of the lake
around me, the greens, yellows, and russet browns,
with brilliant patches of sky blue moving between them,
and watched fish lazily sliding below
the water-lily pads at my feet, and the dragon-flies
hovering and sweeping above the mirrored surface.

The warmth of the sun,
the peaceful beauty of the place,
and the enchantment of finding it once again,
drew me into a state of deep repose and reflection,
in which my mind was filled with a sense
of mystery, and a sense of the vastness of time,
and a strange understanding came over me
that this lovely place had always been here,
close to me, but lying just beyond my perceptions,
simply waiting for me to remove the masks and veils
of mundane adult life, and regain once more
the child's wonder at the world and innocent ability
to see and accept it as it is, and thus
had been able to find the path once more.

And, on the distant edge of these deep reflections,
I heard a sound behind me, and
as I turned towards it, that lovely woman
I used to know so well, the woman
who used to come to me in my dreams,
whose smile is like sunshine and laughter like music,
and whose grey-eyed soulful gaze I could never escape,
sat gently down beside me and, without a word,
slipped her arm through mine,
my soul, my dear, dear soul, clad in a dark red gown,
that lovely being of the deepest sensibility,
that lover of goodness and tranquility,
she met me there and sat beside me silently.  

Such was the reverent and expansive feeling of her
presence, I was filled with awe
that I had found her once again, my beloved,
so long lost to me, and I was inspired with
the deepest gratitude that the ancient gate
had appeared before me, and had opened to my touch,
and I had been allowed to return once more
to this tranquil place, to be with her once again,
and to walk with her, arm in arm, in our garden.
David Champion Sep 2017
Seagulls,
With their shrill cries,
Sharp beaks,
Judging eyes,
Always on the look-out
For the next morsel.

How versatile they are!
You don't have to be a dead thing
Lying on the beach.

These birds feed on living flesh!
David Champion May 2017
It was recommended
as a place to go alone…

an iron staircase…
spirals downwards
into the gloom.
                                                      
At the lowest step, I pause…

…echoes of my footsteps
…fading…

then nothing
but the silent treads
that brought me down

…and my heavy heart-beat.

I might have expected this…
I have arrived at the basement,
and there is no-one here…

Where is the artist,
dressed in black?

This is his gallery
but the walls are blank
… there are no pictures…
everything has gone

…except for the familiar armchair.

I can do nothing
but slump down into it …
David Champion May 2017
By day, the ocean obeys
The laws of nature,
Stays in its place,
Washing up on the sand
In regular and reliable waves,
It is predictable by day,
‘tho sea-salts would say otherwise.

But have you noticed the way
The ocean grows towards dusk,
If you stay alone on the beach
With your arms wrapped around you
Against the cold sea-wind,
Watching the glow of the sun recede?

At this time,
You will see the waves begin to pile higher,
Rising one above the other
Far above the beach.

This is the time of the greatest tide,
When the moon’s pull is exceeded
By other influences,
And the ocean begins to break through.

It rises over the shore,
Sweeps up over forests and fields,
Towns and villages,
Bursting through doors and windows.

It cannot be restrained by locks and catches.

In the evening,
The ocean will always come
Into your house.
Filling every room and corner.

You cannot escape the ocean,
At this time,
You cannot go back
And watch it from the beach.

At this time,
The ocean is all around you
And you are swimming in its depths,

At this time,
You have become the ocean.
David Champion Apr 2018
Have you ever tried to sail
against the tides?

Heeled into the stiff wind,
with the jib straining,
the rigging humming,
the bow cleaving the waves
and spray cascading over the fore-deck,
you seem to be making great headway.

But a glance back to the shore
confirms the truth.

Something about that island
you are trying to leave
seems to be holding your ship
in its thrall,
as if an invisible rope
stretches back to the shore.

But it is not the island's gods
preventing your escape.

It is nothing more than the tides.
You have started your voyage
at the wrong time.
You must give up this vain attempt,
furl your sails, drop your anchor,
and go below.

You must sit this out
and wait for the tide to turn.
David Champion Apr 2017
Approaching an island
Of unknown rocks
And rearing cliffs,
I am Ulysses,
Anticipating the next terror.

My ship cleaves
The running waves,
Dipping long and deep
Into foam at leeward,
While above me
Curves the white canvas.

It seems forever
That I have stood
Alone at the helm,
On this sloping deck,
Feeling the great, grey rollers
Slide below me,
And the cold wet wind at my back.

I watch the waves,
The ship,
The approach of the unknown shore,
No Sirens can distract me,
I am bound to this voyage.
David Champion Aug 2017
In the morning light,

When the air is still,

Before the noises of the day

Intrude upon the mind,

A certain clarity 

Becomes a possibility,

When in moments of repose,

One can turn inside

To find deeper moods, 

Both beautiful and darker spaces, 

Places of uncertainty,

Tinged thus with anxiety,

As if, when walking in wild hills,

One comes across a vantage point,

A jutting outcrop of rock,

Overhanging a plunging valley,

And standing there alone,

One's consciousness sinks into the abyss,

Its tumbled sea of wooded slopes, 

Above which rise rugged pinnacles

Wreathed round with mountain mist.



Across a vault so vast, 

A tiny bird,

Caught in a ray of sunshine,

Seems to hang and float,

As might a dust-mote,

In a beam of tinted light,

Streaming down 

Into the transept of a great cathedral,

Illuminating the space

With divine renown, 

A sacred sense of depth,

With perspective so beyond 

All human understanding,

As to still one's breath

And overwhelm the viewer

With a sense sublime,

So near the dread of death.



Pondering thus, 

In awe,

I follow with my eyes 

The rugged forest,

Sweeping steeply down
Towards the valley-floor,

Those silent soundings

Somewhere out of sight, 

Which seem to promise 

More than I can see,

Invoking a sense of mystery

Of something hidden 

In the unseen depths below, 

And a sense again,

Of something closer still,

An abiding presence 

Of a far more intimate kind,

Calling me downward,

And, in my mind,

I begin to descend, 

Over great granite boulders,

Hand-holds found on branches, 

Offered here and there

In the tumble of mighty rocks

By trees clinging to crevices between,

Bending as they take my weight,

Shaking rustling leaves,

As I climb downward carefully,

Hand over hand,

With lack of sureness,

And fear of a poor foothold,

A slide of rock, a slip, 

A fatal fall,

Into the abyss.



At last when I have scrambled down

The wild and rough escarpment,

I stop to catch my breath,

Beneath the mass of rock,

The titanic building blocks

Of this timeless landscape,

I find the ancient ground gives way 

To a less demanding gradient, 

And my breathing comes more easily

Descending now less dangerously, 

My shoulders brushed 

By lighter leafy foliage, 

As I step down through dense bush,

Pushing back branches from my face,

Sliding over fallen trees,

And make my way down,

Through thigh-high bracken,

Between the trunks of mighty 

Mountain eucalypts,

Those giants marching silently

Down to the valley floor.



Down here the air is cooler,

And I hear a distant murmur, 

Not of mountain breezes 

Sighing in the tops of trees,

But rather the enticing sound 

Of running water, 

Coming from an unseen place,

Nearby, waiting to be found

In this shadowed peaceful realm,

Where sunlight touches softly,

Catching the frond of a fern,

Shining on smooth white boughs,

And I go further down and in,

Until the watery bell-clear sound

Seems all around, 

And reflected light catches my eye,

Between the trees and foliage,

Until eventually 
I step out into a clearing

An open space

Where there is a great flat rock,

Around which a shallow creek flows

Over a bed of white stones, 

And two great straight trees

Stand like sentinels, 

Guardians of this lovely glade, 

Water gurgling around and below 

Their gnarled roots built like buttresses.



Here I stand in breathless silence, 

Marvelling at the light

Filtering down

Through the towering trees

And floating fronds of tree-ferns

High above me,

Its soft and golden luminosity

Bringing a sense of mystery, 

And the grandeur of stillness 

To this peaceful place,

Where water trickles soothingly.


And as the beauty of this vale

Fills my mind with thoughts

Of Nature's splendour,

I sense the presence

Of that one,
I far too easily forget,
Who abides here in this valley,

Who appears

Unbidden in my dreams,

And whose steady gaze

Has always brought me back

To deep reflection,

For she is my mirror,

Soul, and centre of my being,

And I sense her standing 

Close beside me

By the running stream,

Arms outstretched to welcome me

To our place of blissful unity,

Where I will never be alone,

For she is ever-present here,

Always awaiting my descent,

My return to what is home, 

So felt with awe and gratitude,

Our lovely Vale of Solitude.
David Champion Sep 2017
I needed
Lots of chocolate ice-cream...

... and all the shops had empty shelves.
David Champion Sep 2017
... no words left in my fingertips...

— The End —