raven-silhouette-and-storm-clouds public domain pictures.net

 

 

In the beginning

 

And the ending

 

And the beginning

 

Stand unbroken

 

The chimes of the mists

 

Of evermore, where the raven,

 

Black king of prophecy,

 

Of shining forests,

 

Greets

 

The rain and the sun,

 

And awaits

 

His mate

 

On the juniper heights,

 

Hearing the humming croak

 

Of the frog in the creek

 

And all the crowds

 

Of tadpoles

 

That awoke

 

In the sands,

 

In the sparkling rains.

 

Later,

 

The wise

 

Long-eared owl

 

Walks in the snow,

 

In the midnight of winter,

 

Silent,

 

As she has always done,

 

Remembering the bubbling lakes of spring

 

Where crystal flowers flame

 

In the sunrise,

 

Where Ganesha’s smile

 

Illuminates

 

The fateful dark; where the coyote’s howl

 

Sings a lullaby, a gentle

 

Enchantment, laughing, sly.

 

Where the broken bridge

 

Of time bends along

 

The rushing waters of the gorge, transient,

 

Leaving.

 

Yet the presence of eternity remains

 

In the eyes – at once meek

 

And brave – of the young cottontail.

 

On a silver-winged hill,

 

Under a bright cowl of numinous clouds,

 

The ravens

 

Call

 

Still

 

In the trail

 

Of the rains

 

0f a distant day.

 

Until

 

The gold feet

 

Of the setting sun

 

Run

 

Over long roads through the juniper trees –

 

Through the scattered scrub oak.

 

White cliffs, gateways to eternity,

 

You who bear the scars

 

Of rain and winds and storms, who

 

Give earth blessings,

 

Who speak silently through

 

Ancient seas long gone – where you were born,

 

Through awareness beyond our own,

 

You talk with the stars

 

From a far ancient country, long worn

 

Away,

 

And yet to be again;

 

When

 

You recall the song

 

Of the mountain bluebird

 

Who had no name

 

The song no longer heard,

 

Sung long ago,

 

In mystic nights

 

That left no trace.

 

Now, after a while,

 

Tall,

 

On a high ridge

 

The pine tree

 

Stands,

 

Unafraid, in the ice and snow

 

Singing still,

 

Under the haunting moon of grace,

 

A moon of many petals,

 

Beyond the tides that rise and fall,

 

On the plateau above, he stands

 

And writes with fire in the sky

 

On a clear and wind-swept day.

 

 

©Sharon St Joan, 2019

 

 

Photo Credit:

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