Wordmothers (as an artist painting white circle red)
Dreaming of the day when I can dream again in monochrome
Head stitched by negatives gaoled in old camera
Which may, or may not, have happened.
Or will happen.
So indeed it was -
A broken porcelain tea cup
The space underneath a stone
Fishing line snagged on ol’ man river reeds –
Which brought me here.
Kettle steam breathes bhoots awake
Drift as snow-dust from winter’s prologue,
Settle on edge of oak table
Where take-away remnants
Remind me of feasting rats,
Once, in that house on fire.
We build ribs and lungs
In eternal wombs of mothers:
The kitchen of ancestral ovens.
Stark darkness enfolds bones into broth
Of a recently departed dream,
Spectres hold my breath in vespers
Of faith, of Lakshmi liturgy, of the sea
Of ships, of shells, of the swept
Sweeping sandy bays, of the
Passing existence we owe them.
The Oneness of Union moves into light
In sarvangasana you erect our creation
Your legs enfold a world.
Shadows write Sanskrit on satin sheets –
Braille touched, I feel you.
The Union of Oneness survives the
Velvet crush of a moon snuffed out.
It only takes one match to raze a city.
Earlier, a small deer at foot of hills
Eyes wide awake to danger
Frames the artist in watercolour pools.
The world stops for the silhouette stag
Tourist in Domesday Book index:
Snared by a phantasmal fog.
Ghosts walk in the margins
Midnight dreamers steal
The silence of the dawn.
Voices heard only by you and the other....
Ashes to ashes
Have we been forgotten by The God of Small Things?
Dust to dust
Out of darkness cometh light.