India
Forest,
Rock stone lake,
Red cliff flowers on the road to the moon;
Tracks run into the curled sea of Malta,
Where the wind songs break.
Back then
There were many obelisks, all
Bright and speaking –
Not like today
When
The smoke whispers only
Sad tales of decrepitude,
And there are no beings singing
In the clouds,
Only shrouds
Of emptiness.
When
Will the gray
Seagulls return
On wings of yesteryear,
On dreams not yet forgotten?
When will the spirits, imbued
With magic, fly up through
The night mists –
Rain-hissed?
Having slept,
The cobra
Rocked from side to side,
Friend of Narayana,
From the sea-green tide,
Alert, considering
Where to slither next,
Ancient being,
The one
Who used to ride among the stars,
Ancestor of many,
Who writes his text
On sandbars,
Ocean-swept.
Long ago
Then
Legends lived of hero
And saint
And those wiser than us by far.
There
Were crowds
Of bumblebees who count the stars.
Even now, doorways go
From the cavern
In the lake
To the mystic palaces of the tall
Wandering beings
Who still hear
The tales of centuries long slipped away,
Their shadow-light faint
Beyond the sea.
When will the time come then?
Soon
After the smoke of the fire has spewed
Down the valley
Will there arise
At last the moment of
Wildflowers, wandering moths, butterflies,
And little ones
With deep black eyes
And strange smiles of kindness?
There
Where
The wind sighs
Still
In the tall pines
And the bright moon
Shines
High
Above
The far-glimmering
Hill.
© Copyright Sharon St Joan 2023