Shadows shorn from shouldered shapes declining,
drawn from rested elbows of the turning path,
draped across the lap of listless sun and sorrowed earth,
casting darkness, mottled, through reflected light,
to hold the image constant, drifting, dappled shades,
which lead the way to distant lure and dreaming sight.
Potential held within the arms of curving branch,
that moment on the road to hope - horizon's call,
where what lies far beyond does promise more it seems,
and yet, is harsh reflected, burning silent on the dusty road,
in contrast sharp and rigid, captured in the glare, unsheltered,
sweltered, aching in unforgiving vision, as freedom is bestowed.
Dream in staggered haunting reveals the image set in place,
repeats the message yet again, of something lost … but what, is never shown or part
revealed in shape,
yet comes to taunt and teach, of memory now tossed.
In time tied to forgetting and pain of ancient cost.
remembering is tangled and broken through the nights,
of something which has happened, left imprint on dark host;
yethuddles in the hidden realms of
This loss is ever lingering and trailing through the years,
reality diluted, devoid of rigid thought or form
as something dark and awful, in shroud of unshed tears,
to wrap my dreams eternal, in torn, tormented cause.
There is no other place than here,
there is no other now,
just moments held in time’s sure hands,
that we can call our own.
It is the living of the day,
the dying of the night,
as all eternal wandering
puts certainty to flight.
To live beyond the moment,
to dream of what might be
throws bitterness upon God’s gift
of true eternity.
So take the now and claim it sure,
as truth so clearly found
and place all thought within the
here, that Life will know your name.
Forget what I said for it is just words revealed, and revealing that which must be denied, for there is no place for such whisperings, or truths, in the shadowed hauntings of time, where who you are and where I am describe, deep and abiding divisions;placements which will not allow connection or perhaps, relationship.... forget what I said, for it was just willful, wistful, wanderings of a mind, disconnected, from reality - torn loose from reason; dissected neatly from the flesh of hope; cast adrift on salted grief.
Those flattened fields of Flanders
scream of battered souls
and muffled howls which pressed
beneath time's tread has crushed
the cry of hurt beneath firm soil.
The heaving shape of shouldered pain
is locked by grasses -green terrain,
which grips and holds imprisoned fast,
the rotted world which once had passed:
in steady tread and huddled roar,
a raging spread of weeping sore.
The silence now holds heavy court
upon the place where thousands fought
and died with no-one there to see
them sucked beneath the seething sea;
a muddy grave which beckons still
with glutinous grin alive and well
beneath the veil of fragile green.