Beautiful, Alison...
savage fields,
among wildflowers,
this blood and the red
of poppies
>the longed for is reticent,
>shadows of wings or leaves, light on a table
>at evening when the heart soars for reasons it cannot know,
>fullness of the torn self in its yielding
>to the severance of speech, lips, words, o nothing
>kissing the rim of day with its bright absence,
>feathered with anguish, joyed, bloodied, rumpled
>silhouette against the window¹s blindness
>where something like music
>trails its damage, score of sweat and ash, a faint
>print of breath cooling in complex air
>
>all this in the shape of a hand, regretless
>tolling of those sensuous bells
>blooming inside impossible dawns, deserts
>breaking open after rain,
>and there, inverted in the back of an eye, a tiny image
>moves and speaks into distance, ungraspable
>and whole and wholly innocent
>
>as flowers are in their savagery, entirely efficient:
>the excess is all ours, that flamboyance
>merely an inscribing of impalpable spaces
>sensed between one breathing and the next withheld
>in necessary solitudes, between gesture and shadow, between
>what remains of godliness and the chastened hand that reaches,
>knowing better than this, reaches out to touch it
>
>
>Alison Croggon
>
>Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
>Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
>Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com
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