The white moths
Of time listen
To the silken threads of the moon glisten.
Indeed,
Perhaps it is time, not the world
That needs
To end?
For the world of men
Has dimmed,
Grown cold, like Mars,
And is no more.
Only the sting
Lingers,
The bite of ignorance past.
In the mists of Scotland,
There is hidden magic.
Where did Agni go when he went?
He fled away across the hills
Where no one could find him,
And left the land bereft of warmth.
But he did not truly
Go,
And the moonlight,
Amethyst,
Falls on the whole lake, dreamed in snow.
No one has gone,
Only the gray wraith
Of doom
Who cursed the morning
From the chill tomb.
No one is lost
On the sharp footfall
Of the descent,
Because the eagle watches
Through the ice-clawed
Storm.
The rain still
Slips
Down the rock-ringed hill.
The eyes of the deer recall
The face of sunshine, and the breath
Of the seas that sing
On the shore
Where the fingers of dawn
Awaken the sky.
The flowers of the sun
Beckon
The dragon,
Silver-pawed;
Black cows stand
In the peace of the meadow.
The calf trips
Through the tall grass.
Trees grow their leaves.
The shy
Calico cat leaps into the valley of tulips.
The frog calls the rain.
The white
Horse is the moon who wanders.
The raven is the night,
Daughter of Shani,
Born of the cosmic
Egg, the feathers of the yew,
The elbows of the eon.
Who guessed
That owls live in the stones too,
And Europe’s
Neanderthal;
The rags of clouds, of cloth
Unfurled,
Fly to where, who can tell?
In the river sails the incarnate trout
Of golden gill.
By what temple did you used to rest,
Your wooden bowl in hand?
Who lit the lamps for you
When the moon went out
And time fell?
Would the rain come again?
Broken branches
On the Great War’s trenches,
The snow was too heavy.
The dancing of branches,
The singing of stars,
Time to go north,
Fleet deer of spring,
Gone with the white-crowned sparrow.
In whose soul does the lily dwell?
Is the deer the eternal grace of the forest?
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo: publicdomainpictures.net
