a bleak january evening approaching ethereality on a railway bridge as the fog’s falling byssine, and brilliantly, around me. in the hedgerows, the blackthorn and hazels are blossoming. and everything else is moving underneath, quietly, you can’t see it but there’s beauty blooming silently, silently. it waits for the spring. my uninterrupted attention is prayer. what celestial circumstance brought me here? there’ll be a blood moon tonight, the last for ten years. selenelion sunlight scattered by atmosphere until it turns rust-red peculiar and then disappears. (i’m going to try valerian tea tonight, maybe i’ll sleep a little better) Advertisements
the tallest of treetops are my temple arch and there are cyclamen, snowdrops, lining my path through this frost-frozen forest, dewdrops, grass, as stained glass rising incense, the scent of sea air and wildflowers. i’ve got silver birch bones, and i’ve paper thin skin and near-transparent, i’ve a heart that lets everything in so with lichen as lace, i’ll go wandering this place, seek the shadow and shade of each meadow and glade.
so said the starlight, to the sea, do you know where all rivers lead? what could you hope to know of me? i’m far above you. out of reach. i sing the music of the spheres, and every dawn, i disappear, oh, cosmic lyre, into the fire, that all things come from. ever higher. responds the sea, pellucidly, don’t you know? you are part of me. we rise and fall symmetrically, there’s so much, still, you’ve yet to see. your glow, reflected on my surface? the exhaled breath of universes. and that’s your path, your shining purpose, celestial child, to learn what love is. (i will never ever finish my album if i keep insisting on adding new songs. to the sea!)
the last of a lilac twilight. countryside rushing by the window of my high-speed train, and i’m wondering, again, maybe this is how life is: the most beautiful things, we just get a glimpse of. still, to even be here at all is to break the dark with showers of strontium and spark, is to set the sky alight so that we might pierce even the most frozen november night.
at starcross station, sometimes hidden rivers looking like silver ribbons surrender themselves to the ocean. it’s an ancient conversation, saltwater, and stone. there’s a sonorous space in me. in fact, it spills over everything, and i’d like to seperate it. write songs for the sea! strange, back and forth melodies. haunting, or holy? i think the waves might be decorated time. we are surrounded by stillness. deep breath, then, dive. there’s dust dancing in the sunlight, that’s pouring through the window.
life. shadow and spire. something leaps like myth from the fire, and carries you higher. — on a midwinter’s evening, i promised forever i had mistletoe clasped between nervous fingers though the fog falls in curtains, i’ve a path lit with lanterns and a string of stars guiding me home.
this place is drenched in divinity, it’s hidden just under everything. my thoughts split themselves into infinity, as if cabalistic commentary. meaning, direction, escaping me. so, i’m 2am tiptoeing threadbare carpets, scattered haphazard on creaking oak floorboards, tealights in lanterns glow soft gentle yellow, and i’m whispering prayers to the ancient and spectral. (i’ve always adored just how light behaves, how it moves through the world in mysterious ways)
dusk drops sun fades evening shadows elongate and marbled skies are parted by a pouring dreamlike light i lace together day and night i lace together day and night
i watched the whole world bloom into colour, one season into another looming lavender skies promised me thunder springtime on the edge of the mountain. then the days, growing softer and slower, one season into another humid evenings and wildflower honey, like sticky-sweet accents, all foreign to me. the last golden sigh of summer, one season into another a slow exhaling september the last of the sunflowers bow their heads. we pierce the darkest days of winter, one season into another holly, mistletoe, frost in the garden then stained glass, then snowdrops, then soon enough spring.
faith celestial braid. november’s grace. palest sky all glass and lace. the enshrined tide (starlight) of an orbicular ocean which will rush, rise, and subside in perpetual devotion. a silver sylvan siren’s whispered superstition offering divine direction, a path to dew drops and cyclamen, my lost pool of Siloam.