Beech trees like cathedral pillars soar
To vaulted ceilings oozing dapple-green,
Where twinkling sunlight, filtering to the floor
Dilutes the dusky darkness in between.

A concert hall, acoustically tuned
To amplify each tremorous touch of stick
On wood, where silent magic is cocooned,
Responding to the scuffled tap and tick

From scrunching undergrowth, where dusty death
And dried decay seep back to nature’s store,
To resuscitate with pungent earthy breath
The spirit of the leafy forest floor.

Earth’s still-born sister

Cast-away
Aborted

Your ghostly image
Pock-marked and pale

Follows

A haloed haunting
Forever drawn
By primitive
Family ties

Shy sibling
Nightly your clouded iris
Averts our gaze

But this evening
In wonderful dilation

You stoop low
To peer

In magnificent bloodshot beauty

At what might have been

© Marcus Lane 2008

A Yank with a terrible voice
Singing ditties of dubious choice,
Gave a concert at woik
In the heart of New Yoik,
And ended up making it woice.

Spring rejoices to
The trumpeting daffodils'
Triumphant fanfare

Gold tipped crocus spears
Pierce the frost-skinned garden's heart:
Winter lies bleeding

The well is dry.
Drained
Of water words
and once-shimmering images.

My bucket has
Scraped down dry walls,
Clanking and
Echoing

In emptiness.

The parched earth croaks
A plea for the patter
Of refreshment:

To bear
Living shoots.

And on the eighth day
On all corners of the dry land
He had created
Out of love for mankind,
His people formed religions and sects,
Through which to worship their creator,
Each according his race.

So were born pride and enmity,
Jealousy, hatred and prejudice.
Doctrines, dictates and decrees
Enslaved each and every one.
Darkness descended

And distant thunder
Stirred