We wandered in cathedrals green
verdant apses morning haze
architectured nature’s scene
all passion growing in your gaze
and in these woods of early dew
the light of morning stained the trees
with golden halos painting you
to cast my reserve to the breeze
when the light
shines right
upon the morning lake
it seems
my dreams
dance in its rippled wake
and from the water’s edge
I watch their ballet run
and build upon its meaning
for there are dreams to come
Hamburg 7 a.m.
my dreams were once an island
but the rains succumbed
to sunlight’s lingering kiss
and then I saw beyond the mist
the dreams were no longer remote
an isthmus had formed
that we could cross together.
behind the glass
she calls to me
a thousand miles away
across the hills
beyond the sea
she lived another day
one in which
the world was gold
and troubles all are gone
as in this frame
her story’s told
before mine had begun
Gustav nipped off into town
on his safety bicycle
and as the wheels turned round and round
his thoughts turned to the musical
upon the bars sat a french horn
the saddle a violin
and both the wheels were cymbals
they did make such a din
at passing horses he would ring
his little tingling bell
and at the crossroads he would sing
and conduct traffic as well.
at twilight’s end
I follow swans
into the stones
where ghosts had longed
to live before
their spirits waned
a boathouse ruined
in the rain,
upon the lake
of reveries
which tempted
from my memories
broken thoughts
of loves forgot
and of those
that I knew not,
but time is ended
love is gone
into the mists
like mourning swans
now the dark boathouse
alone remains
to shelter dreams
from waking rains.
the west holds secrets
until the next day reveals
all the east may tell
the wildflowers sing their songs
and we have no need of minstrels
as long as they have such ballads
to serenade the breeze
In the old poetry book,
musty and slightly torn,
which he’d chanced upon
yesterday
in a cardboard box
of second hand paperbacks,
he discovered
a small, sepia stained photograph
a box camera snapshot
of a girl in the mountains
being used as a bookmark
for the poem “Passion”
by Kathleen Raine.
who was he to remove her?
here she would remain
always.
