
Returning
To the land of drifting snow –
So
Many angels.
Black ravens circle
Above
The treetop,
Glinting green.
Dawn
Stars discern
A faint pathway
To river banks unseen.
Only divinity remains,
Only angels and singing bells,
In the gentle rains
Of spring.
Rocks washed, in the rolling
Dance
Of the unstoppable swells
Of the sea;
Tree shadows fade against the sky.
There is no one,
No one at all.
The tangles of time are all undone.
Only the lingering glance
Of eons sliding by,
Only the halo
Of the sacred night,
Only the peace of Eternity,
Only the startling snow,
Only the song of the swan
Has slipped away
Into the gray
Clouds of the pillars of the night,
Where the moon might
Sing,
The white-crowned sparrow
Hop,
And the magpie don
Her white robes, worn
In celebration
When the cosmic journey leads on and on
Through calming mists
Over miles of snow forests.
The one who waited to kill
The soul
No longer glimmers,
But is gone,
Into the night-waves of shadow.
Faded,
The bitter song – of illusion – was never sung –
The notes were never played,
But fell instead into the yawning gap of the abyss,
So the autumn leaves never cascaded
On to the burned embers of time, unborn
With the final hiss
Of the raindrop.
Now, at last, only
The brave, undaunted raven rises
Whose eyes
Glisten wise
In the snow-radiant dark.
Only the real one,
Who soars aloft, ever higher
Over the juniper tree.
Shani,
The first one,
The only one,
The God of myth
Who sparkles fire
As the bright
Truth
Of being,
Riding on the swift ark
Of the moon-crowned night.
© Copyright Sharon St Joan, 2023