.


paths narrow past the breadth of these long-travelled burdens across our shoulders



in the canyon

floods may come .



then
embroiled amidst the nimbus of our eyestains,
the road behind entombs itself in these    
    vibrant
      greys



[she sang to us from stones on fire :

          we, as they, clay

          we, as they, clay]

reading the line, moved the line
into a place of hedges, rural
contemplation.

not understanding the word,
we google and discuss.

so many connections, so
much came from nothing,
god particle, if god
is the word to use.

reading the line, we move
into a place of hedges, where
the wild things grow.

there the wild things grow.

quiet transformation
a flower unfurls

beauty of nature
mirrored beauty in souls

flowers are silent
speaking with other tongues

songs of the meadow
frolicking lambs and calves.

heady scent
a lovers touch

a yellow vase
bunched flowers

a drink of water
spiritual crystal

the veil is thin
love tokens lavished.

the sun spills warmth
across the countryside
and the flowers smile

waving their tiny leaf hands
to greet the new day

so I smile with whispers of love
as if the wildflowers are my children.

the elusive thrushes
hidden among the bowing willows

whisper sweet songs.

the tiny bird angels
not so far off.

those tiny angels

far from the silences that **** you inside.

seen in aberystwyth
lately, an other world.

away.

layers of paint,
wider crossings.

the man saw his father
in mirrors, helped
with tiny shoon,
helped with self
esteem.

it only took one
hour,
to blow
those cobwebs
away.

i met the story teller,
in the museum,
the street,
the place between.

the light flutters like ribbons,
the light gold leaf and flickering

amber, the light tenuous in her
gentleness, slumbering with her whims

and her sleep of blue earth, and air,
breath of joy, breath of dust.

night holds us and her daydreams are
a forgotten song, and night is like

the streams of water that awaken with
summer and her cool rivers of air, night with

her paradise far from the gathering
of limb and ledge, far from the leaves

of the dusk where the shadows tremble and the
water turns itself into tears, and we hear the

ghosts cry to the pretty sky,
sometimes we hear the ghosts cry.

formless joy radiating off in
waves
amplified by

smile lines
and
crows feet

it emanates
and embraces
those with

sunken eyes
and
hollow cheeks