The Oracle’s poem more than a message. A cadralor.
Sky is blue as a bird’s egg
but the lake is black.
Time blows across its surface
filling its depths with wreckage.
The garden wears a smock
of stalks and last years leaves
keeping the green growth bright
cradling the budding flowers.
These roads and city streets teem
clashing rocks and whirlpools of brash clamour.
My eyes and ears full of purple sunset
Temple-churches full of blood
and the worship of death
suffocating with cut lilies
and the sound of weeping.
Wind-whispers weave stories
from storms and a transfigured sky
red and purple seep earthwards
the scent of roses.