Transcendental Nocturne

I cannot remember, memory
and, memory of a dream I once had
seems to be the yew thickened sky, mallard winter swallows photon shower imprinted on
whitewashed cloisters, their clerestory of light, in a dream where you, visitor
became the orange and dun hornet looking for admittance,
diving to be let into the fest.
So let me look at you then, you are not
the same as when breath was young and the song
became the dream
engraves the grave faced decays of bodies where brutal white-gloved that moon and silver lake milks itself drinking back life to nourish
Autumn seethes in lice of fallen logs
and the starlings shutter the white wall
with their engravings of cirrus
the wasp nests’ paper lanterns glow in the outhouse
where bindweed and dead man’s fingers supplicate.
At dawn on the lake geese are torpid
Under a light screed
a beetle hammer, rusted wedge, split logs
Scarred walls, burnt beams
under this tree shoemaker farrier invented by links and rings joining this
a psyche of air-blue and sunset’s cinnamon
awakes the dream, of another place
sunset on stones warmed by a breath of sospiro.

About the author

Colin Honnor runs a fine arts press in the Cotswalds and is a widely published poet both in print and online. A former editor…

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Issue 20 · May 2014

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