The Quickening
Into the stone-carved silence
drifts a voice from distant shores
as my vision clears into the shape of the windrose
which indicates that the course
has shifted yet again
in situ
my life flows
life flowing
life contracting, concentrating
as if to pass like luminous sands
through a narrow hourglass
A tremor is felt as plates
shift beneath the placid exterior
landscape leaving no stone unturned
The changing tides and sinking sun;
the threads chafe in the hands of destiny
who sits weaving and unmaking patterns
in the fading light and strong wind
The voice,
I heard it,
it called to me
from a distant shore
…or did it come from the illusion
that I saw through my opened window
of wide open space painted on the wall of
the house next door in colors too rich
to be born of earth?
A solitary star pierces the twilight
which does more to accentuate the darkness
than to provide light
Hope is carried on the points
of the windrose…
I travel unmoving among the gypsies and
forgotten people hidden away in their transitory keeps
in the lost corners of my mind
who tell stories, laugh in the darkness
and dance in the pure light of the virgin night
clothed softly in the new moon;
who teach me the language of the
distant voice folding me into its
silent resonance
