THE PLOUGH AND THE STARS

I stumble and fall

trying to keep up with Michael and Dolly
as they plough on

ahead
and I follow

in their wake
falling over furrows

that they make.

Dolly's coat glistens
with the immense effort

breathing in the intense strange strong smell of horse.

Uncle Michael
at one with the harrow

muscles taut and tight
controlling everything with his voice.

I copy him & shout:
'Woa...! ' & 'Hey up...! '

but Dolly doesn't listen
...only to him.

He ploughs into the sunset
as if he and Dolly

had turned over these fabulous colours

creating an evening
becoming night.

The moon bright
I try to count

the stars
like seeds

but fall
.. asleep.

*

UNCLE MICHAEL -ALIAS GOD!

His hands
(tobacco stained)    

twisted & gnarled

knotted like an alive
piece of wood

scrawled gestures
across my mind

as the sick calf
bucked in his arms
& his quiet strength

- calmed:

'Shhhhhh... shhhhhhh...****...****! '
he crooned

& the sound
soothed.

And the veins
(line vines)    

ran up & down
his arms
pumping crude life

like a sudden sketch
to suggest the gist of
rather than the meaning of things.

And he walked
(& I ran)    

towards Granny's garden
(like God tending Eden)    

& the gate(a little hoarse)    
sighed at his hand and

the leaves murmured
(like worshippers in a church congregation)    

& the sunlight
genuflected through the trees

and the trees wore socks & apples.

A tablecloth was laid
on a logan berry bush.

And the young tree
gave herself to him

broke tenderly in his hand
and, the knife whistled &
out of the branch came a man.

And he told me
(& I believed him
'cos he was good as God & strong)    

that the little wooden man
(the silent statue)    

had been waiting
(all the time all ready made)    

waiting to be released
from his prison of wood.

'All things...'
he whispered
'all things are
waiting for you
to call them.'

'Call them to come out...'

'Awake them...'

'Create them...! '

The rhododendrons
were blue with amazement

- at this revelation -

a dragonfly walked
upon the water.

A butterfly became
infatuated with a flower.

Me...?

I watched
as his hands
talked...

...explaining things that
could not be...said.

And he took
my hand in his

and I understood

flowed

like a little stream

into his big river

felt God
(close)    
near at hand

and...smiling.

* * * * * * *

YOU WERE LAUGHING

It was so much so
your world, that

(when it died)    

you decided to
accompany it.

Loss, hung festooned(joined hands like decorations) .
Grief, winked like a baublel(on a Christmas tree's ring finger) .

Sadness, drifted dazedly(like the ceiling balloons)    
bobbing up and down on an invisible sea.

Ship
wrecked
cast
away

I...sland.

Later, we learned(Time taught us)    
to fold the tears carefully, careful
not to crease them

like decorations
stash them

away in an attic

until the next time we would need them.

They said(they all said)    
you were dead
but the child(the child)    
would not...believe them.

In his head
(it was you)    

and you
were

laughing
(smiling)    

and the child

touched

your face.