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Let me pack this poem
with things that cannot be spoken,
feelings too deep to feel,
too wide to embrace,
and too high to sustain
the struggling breath of inspiration.
Let me mourn the loss
of those things
that lie beyond my imagination;
the elusive, folded spaces of time.
Does a fragrance of roses linger in the vase,
and is this the gentle breeze
that kissed the cheeks of absent friends,
in memory of times now flown?
Is this the shade of darkness that defines the light,
the armour of outline
that cloaked shapes wear
to fend negative space
from their nakedness?
A shaft of coloured light
illuminates a galaxy
of dust specks;
an infinity
with shadowed edges,
and bloodstains on cold grey stone.
Does the flower arranger feel my presence
each time I re-visit this church of my ancestors,
that is no longer there?
What is poetry,
but the filling of one space with another?
And what is this rush of wind,
the dreaded Ghibli
that obscures each page with sand,
making once more a desert of emptiness,
while stinging my eyes with grains of truth
beyond the oasis.
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