Tuesday, 3 January 2012


What is this wonder-taker
ground-life strummer
dusk-dark dancer
of the sword
in crumble dust
in sunray cord?

This magic mage
this holy sage
this golden god
this darksome cloud
this humming one
this wonder song
this glisten priest
this forest loud?

Life of ochre
life of bronze
potion singer
living song.
Under black leaves
in daylight towers
your daylight soot
ignites the hours.

Carry the crust
of life to life
the flower-crux
the starting might
the yellow fleet
the quickening heat
that brings becoming
from the deep.

Black enactment
sun bright word
world interred.
Hive and honey
wax and god
you are the clouds
that stir the sod.
Enchanters of the pillared pine
we trace your trail
we drink your wine.

And other things
are done by us
not nearly clean
not nearly earthed.
Webs upon the living field
that smell like what
the dying yield.
Changes to the pillared pine
that shrink the swollen
time of wine.

And so the silence
of the hives
after the humming summer.
And so the bodies
small and black
entomb the carcass winter.

And grieving seems
a smaller thing
than sight of a dead hive.
For after all
the sages say
this dying will
enact the tide.

Once we did a rite that seemed
to fill a swarming story.
Perhaps to satisfy ourselves
perhaps to hear the apiary.
There we dreamed
and there we danced
within the dance
there was a glance.
Knots were close within blue sky
knots of past
and knots of hive.
Memories came
and so did swarms
the sky alive
the wood was warm.
The sky alive
and hummed with wings
the story lived
the winged sing.

The story lived through golden words.
The golden goddess combed her hair.
And palaces of cell-souled wax
repeated, multiplied her sight,
repeated, multiplied her swarm
the story lived
the Queen was known.

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