The far-glimmering hill

silhouette of tree under half moon
Photo by Adrian Lang on Pexels.com

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

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