September 2015

re-entering 
my neolithic age—
soil-dark fingers
september—
the spring once more
in my step
barren moon—
unable to conceive 
a being 
greater than oneself
september ends—
native birds piece together
a war of words
to be
is the was
of seems
eight legged dew
along silken fall lines
spread the light

on queue words line centre-stage 

the sound of
messages of condolence
after the tone . . .
out to pasture
I chew over the cud
of becoming

the nothing I have to say is in my words

what binds you, moon,
to the light and dark
of passing days?
on waking
words from the dark side 
of the earth
moon-drenched
the dark side
of my garden
is this dawn?
egg sacs of light
in my garden
full grown
in my memory
seeds sown
dead to words
the silence of darkness
within blue
these words too
my eschatology
of being
plumb-dark eyes
where all light is held
in thrall
and you, son
listening still to the song
in its egg
blood moon
eclipsed by
another side
at a loss
to recreate such a dawn
I bury seeds
distant chant
a lawn mower droning
mortality
only now
hearing the voice
that called my name
buried deep
a death denied
a headstone
the you
forever past
spring clouds
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming
and you, child
never to come past
your becoming
once blossoms 
fall plumb darkening
the garden
phone glow
her words become
static

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