Sunday, December 10, 2017

Always Dying

While precocious winter dusk subsumes them,
the cluster squares awake, coin where the cold's
kept out of rooms; high-rises pock with light
the north shore mountains' feet, eve inlet's
other strand; power-grid optics spangle
farther up - then peter - as residential homes.

The steady automotive chain that spans
the inlet's bridge, likewise lights. No slack
in the pelting sleet on us: day of cold clay,
wet legs, wet hands, white breath, tightening back;
working the valued height once wrecked by storm;
the slurry inhales boots, swallows feet.

The cliffs of salal are frame to spumes
the silent freights, remotely on slate,
drag as through a dream, slow, far, far down;
why the sight of salt water that far down,
and why the sight of lights would cause the heart
to sink, and sink, and sink to death; and why
at this junction, ice cream point, prospect named.

Why winter arrives before it arrives
and takes the willow's yellow lances
to wind-stop corners in the day's last lees,
and with the same stark breath that trysts those leaves,
the willow drapes of whips are knocking naked?

Once, at a forest edge, two I knew
crossed the cold meadow, hearing first their voices;
brother sister pair, they, calling in recognition
to their friend, watching the westering
through woods regained on the other end.

Wood wandered we and before we knew, the fastest
falling dark; and we, three mergers, each one's face
to the other, gradually getting covered
with world's shades, made us three more intimate; the grey
snap chill settled, and something was, that warmed,
keeping us to feel no need for emergence.

We had never one of us seen such dusk
as that one held us in the darkening paths
with deck plied on deck on clean laid blood
fed through the outliers and closer than them,
as one would reach from aisle pew to touch the red
of a cathedral’s glass burning next you.

In a blacksmith black, this hammered burning
light's felling rooting bough-building blood; floating rose thrown
on the fir pillars, in the furthest quiet.
Martyr light dying, light dying, openly dying;
no light dawning on - and we did not leave
for joy. An owl was like a lori bird,

from way back in the wood’s heart
from way back in the wood’s heart,
in the fast-falling ash and cold
that silenced us so to hear it: oo-ta-oo,
and we spied him, mostly silhouette
on a tree's lower rung. And then he flew

like winging smoke, not denying us a similar pleasure
of the wood's depths he knew and flew:
do you know how large the heart of Jesu?
Following the owl like smoke we were
following the owl like smoke, mostly smoke
to the world's material hazards.

But much made of a light, which does not illumine,
for it is not anticipation's light: a light
that denies the dark down to each fast-lit
corner, but does not overcome it;
keeps no warring at the ever ends
where halo rays naked meet the gloom;
nor drum against it like blood's rushing.

Answered us a dying light, that is eternal,
that we're dumb to while we try and scatter
dark away; always dying light that's giving light.
Body, blood and light. Body, blood. Then light.
A dying light signs a coming in light,
on trees against the dark that couches them,
that is the blood which wraps our wintered bole.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Sunday, December 3, 2017

Sunday, November 26, 2017

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Saturday, November 18, 2017

Friday, November 17, 2017

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Friday, November 10, 2017

Thursday, November 9, 2017


You don't have to be a Medievalist to grow and eat medlars.

But a Medievalist who doesn't grow and eat medlars is woefully negligent.