Footprints, hieroglyphic lines etched upon the frost infected ground the sinuous coils of a signature which may or may not be mine steps trod once before and now and again of all that is, somnambulistic trespass through the unsurveyed landscape of a history which may or may not be mine
Back upon the open country the reiterative paths lead but to themselves and enclosed within this mortal suffocation we are lost defined only be the tenor of our wanderings towards an indeterminate location which may or may not be real
Low on the western fields the moon in pallid countenance of guilt slips with culpable silence towards the shadows of forever night the protagonist of nocturnal gramarye radiates her final obeisance’s, perturbed by undisclosed celestial vicissitude her chiaroscuro domain fading blending into darkness with each retreating step slowly descending touching earth dissolves in rivers of mist which tumble and roll over the obdurate marls of the western Cheshire Plain
Something not wholly perceived punctuates the sentence streams of introspection a breath falls upon my naked frame no source, no breeze to stir the flesh from somewhere unknown not before, nor beyond breaks upon the presence of my thoughts my insular view of secular scenes altering my senses to what in truth I had always known but in reality could not confess the stream of consciousness
The eastern sky shows form
Imperceptible as the sweep of the hour’s hand a neap tide waxes threads intertwine twisting in ever changing arabesques monochrome textures weaving together a tapestry in phosphorescent shades
Eos awakening a promise on this Easter morning
Warm Nile breezes across these dusty roads a fragrance of fecundity to dried-out bones I did not consider you not here where you spoke to me as in a vision as the wind whispers to observe the distillation of truth to chart the unfamiliar terrain between illusion and reality to ever endure the disparity what we say – what we do what we dream of doing, this is the dawn…
the day remains as yet unclaimed
Transfigured in the still increasing glow of embers smouldering with gentle absolution in the early hours between the darkness and full light the softness of a Levant morning permeates the solemn air the stones and thorns of a garden where a woman weeps the beat of her lamentation filling these reflective hours vacant with possibility a moment that separates every act from its consequence every word from its meaning every irredeemable effect from its cause the naked horror of just another crucifixion
– from the resurrection
Woman, why do you cry?
I wrote this some years ago. Seems appropriate today.