1. The music of the North Pole plays frost vibrato of grass stalks beneath an unseen sky, diamond ripple of running water notes, while the black ship, ice-bound, awaits the finale, the report of floes cracking.
2. From my bed I can see the blue tits around the window shutters, industrious tapping, pecking and prising insects hidden in the wood, the hinges cold with night, their hollow bird bones stronger than mine.
3. You glower and complain at the rain, the running rivulets down the window panes, the dullness of the light, irritation sparking in every brusque movement. What will you say when the storm breaks?
4. She’s there, the lake goddess where the rocks of a single island break the silken skin of the water. I hear her song, honey-coloured in the evening light, and wonder do I dare take that cold path.
5. Reading the motifs in the carpet, the bird, the eye, the star, beneath my feet, the sky’s reflection, woven by hands far away, years ago; the colours sing the answer, clear as well water.
I visited the Oracle today, having forgotten yesterday that it was Saturday, and accidentally used one of the old word sets. The result is an odd cadralore. Not sure if I hope this is a sign of things to come.
Resolutions for the new world
1. Beauty, the first word that springs from the cluttered twigs of words, to make a forest of a poem, to soar in this brisk wind and wheel overhead when night comes.
2. This dress I once loved is a trick of the light, a limp rag reflecting nothing of the past. I kept it because you said you liked it. You say you don’t remember.
3. All around me are symbols of the chocolate god, sweet smiles sipping and nibbling, the rustle of glossy paper, and in the background, saccharine music plays. I drop a coin in the beggar’s cup.
4. The shadow man says he can’t sweat, and spring breezes over him with a shiver, summer leaves him cold I watch the way his eyes shift as he licks his lips and wait for the flicker of the serpent’s tongue.
4. The beast is back, black and new hatched, mad lies in the mist and looming rocks, but we can defeat it if we would, with roses, the soft purple-pink of evening light, and the song of the thrush in the treetop.
This day I left the womb, the warm waters, to swim through so many unwanted places to reach a semblance of calm. The rain has stopped, and the winter-bare trees reveal a misted horizon. Empty.
We will have summer here, and the waters will shrink to a trickle, the skin of the earth crack, and we will long for something else. Perhaps a storm, perhaps only the quiet weight of a dog’s head resting in my lap.
Black is a cold smell of dead fires and the deepest leaf mould, the refuge of dark things and the whispering of winter wind. The bonfire is over, the sparks settled somewhere out of sight. A new constellation is born.
Words can be red angry as red meat on a slab. He tosses them out like offal, and I wonder how he can live with a mouth that never tastes the music of opera, never wish to be the sweet song of a bird.
The sun juices pictures from trees, open meadows, the restless sea. There is too much light, too much I don’t want to see. I sit with you, waiting for moonrise on the stone bench, where the summer scent of roses lingers.
I wondered if the Oracle would give me a cadralor today.
From this, forests grow
The garden shrinks, cringes from the snapping of the cold, bubbles with mud boiling from worm holes. A wren calls in its fierce voice, and for a moment, winter listens.
There are always shadows, even in the crook of your arms, and tears are never far. You smooth my hair from my face, gentle as that lost look. There. They fall.
For some, the threads are tangled, and worship is tied to the kite string of abuse. Their hands tangled with caresses strike purple bruises across the same trembling skin.
Show me how sleep is not death, the coloured mists within the darkness, and walk with me where we were happy. Look with me for the prints of our feet beneath the fallen leaves.
Sprung from crawling, rotting earth, petals curl and unfurl to elaborate the rose and the music of its scent. Remember that, when the ocean sky roars and pours only bitterness— stormlight and sunlight are cut from the same cloth.