The three-spired rock

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To the farthest land


On the sea-clad coast


Of nowhere.


Go early


Before the dawn can open


Her softly singing




Go while it is dark,


To where the bells of mist spoke




To the constellation of eagles,


Before the spark


Of time’s beginning,


Before the hosts




Of greedy ghosts,


Run rampant.




On past the corn stalk


Of tattered tassels,


Beyond the brush overgrown,


Along the purple crowds of nettles,


Into the unknown,


By the austere






Go, and do not stop,


Until you






At the foot of cliffs towering


And stern.


There you may find


Then, the three-spired rock


Delicate in the owl-lit night,


Ethereal ancestor of the cosmos, from


Whom the worlds arose


And to whom they will yet return,


Packed up and put to sail in the long canoe


Of goldenrod


And willow


To ply


The hummingbird’s river journey


Of stars and hidden skies.


Soon, during the war of endings,


What may follow


The tumult, the rain, the mad-clapping torrent?


Will an echo


Of peace settle


On the saffron petal


Of the buffalo burr


On the canyon wall,


Gathering place of so many


Prescient ravens,


The way a moth lights atop


The shimmering leaf,


Or a silver minnow


Rests in the brook’s golden




Beyond, where the winds walk,


Within the cavern


Of the three-spired rock,


Abide the translucent


Flames of the sun,


The bright-


Oared ship of the moon’s daughters.


There, the young coyote






Down with his fellows to nod


Off in their leafen lair.


All day the woodpeckers knock


And drum,


Outside on the winding tree,


The scent of the pine blossom,


Set adrift.


The blur


Of the rock wren


Will grace


The sparkling bowl


Of spring,


And the fierce spirit of the blue


And gold god


Will lift


His silver bow


To let fly


The twang of the moment of justice.


Ever still


Within the three-spired rock


Lights the cosmic soul


The ineffable one,


While white snow


Will fall


On the eyes


Of the shining waters.


There will be nothing to fear




In the ill-defined


Hours, even


Of the shaggy bear,






The teeth flashing


Of the great whale coursing


The deeps of the sounding sea.



© Sharon St Joan, 2013

Photo: ©  Sharon St Joan




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