The Oracle is in apocalyptic mode today, reflecting current events perhaps, or simply what my writer’s mind is churning over.
and blood cries back from the purple shadows in the universal tongue of grieving mothers tears ripped untimely—
listen to the storm coming
on whose watch will it strike?
We have driven the blue away
poured the honey into the dust and the only light is red.
When this sun sets will the ache
in the marrow of women’s bones turn to blows?
Love life less
and the rain that falls will be the deluge the wild wind that unfurls the ocean the serpent that laps the moon’s milk and spits out poison.
There will be no thousand ships for us
but millions outnumbering the stars.
The sky is singing,
cloud chords plucked by languid wind-fingers, life and death songs of sun on sea, where the wind blows waves to break in foam feathers.
The sky sings salt
and night scents of invisible blooms, enfolding silver-sheathed meadow grass in the cool silence of fox and badger moon, the cropping of monochrome deer,
and I listen to the bell flowers
chiming in the hedge, the water ripple of birdsong, running into summer,
give thanks to the rooted force,
rising and falling in beauty, that makes all these tides ebb and flow endlessly.
One day, I hoped,
flowers would bloom through the frost, the ice crack with joy on the frozen pond, the salt-sad ocean fill with joy,
and on that day,
when it came, I filled from toe to top full of the light that pours from the boundless fiery dark of forever and ever.
I hear your voice,
your familiar tread, see the light lent by the stars in your eyes,
and suddenly that day,
that began so long ago, begins all over again.
Not the poem I was expecting from the Oracle, but she knows what she knows.
This is almost all there is,
the day ending, cupped into open yellow bowls, colour bleeding from the sky and ghost clouds streaming, sails on an endless sea.
I remember your voice, your laughter;
life was good then, and there was magic wherever we looked, in the morning bustle, the night soft with stars.
I wish you were here now, to wake,
look from this window, as you did when you were a child, and see the same stories in the vast velvet above, dream the same dreams.
We all grow, desires change,
yet there is always blue light in the sky, and the laughter remains.
Beauty flows beneath
the skin of this world, singing with the nightingale, whispering like the sea.
The bitter-bare has flowered,
and in the trees, spring shines through the wind.
Ask, and I will blow your dreams,
hatched from dragons’ eggs, coursing with the sap of the moon, into the mists of summer.
For it will come,
and love will light the cool shade of the garden with heart music, and forests will grow, sweet as honey, into the open arms of the sky.
Dream, blue and running,
and may you never see the ship that founders on the shore, or the red rose fall in russet sighs among the raindrops.
The Oracle always knows. Last days of waiting.
I listen in this morning’s damp light
for the child coming through the rhythms of the air of another world.
Cat watches for the coming
like a fish in a bowl a bird in the sky
and I remember those times
raw and tender that dripped with joy tumbling like spring clouds full of tiny hands curled and perfect
the milky noises unabashed
and oceans of laughter.
The stars sailed slow then
in their course and we understood the wild voice of the night.
Beauty is in the music of the moon
the spring spray soaring blue as oceans green as gardens where red roses burgeon and the wind plays stringed meadow grass blows dreams through forest trees.
Beauty too in the sadness of lake water
beneath the rain the sedge shivering in the cold and the scattering of petal feathers newly hatched and already gone into the shadows of the long sleep.
I still haven’t surfaced from antiquity. If anyone is going to understand why, it’s the Oracle.
Wind blows bare from pole to pole,
playing dark red, wine red, blood and poppy red music with the bones of the trees, and the moon sleeps in the sky, rocked in a cradle of stars.
Time was we worshiped
the waxing and waning of the tidal streams, the rising of milk, sources and rushing watercourses, the raw cutting shoots of spring.
We swim now in other seas,
where the sun shines relentlessly, beauty is in the glitter of diamonds, the wealth of bank vaults and injections beneath the skin.
I watch the bud tips,
listen to the singing, cling to these swaying branches, good enough for white blossom and the fluttering of blackbirds.
A black arm beats, asks,
did death drink-drive, is love just heaving meat, a storm with no rain, screaming to the sky?
There is blood beneath this bare breast,
she says, and life sings in the pounding waves of the ceaseless sea;
there is beauty in the dripping juices of every day,
in the purple music of the moon, raw and sweet ripped from the night.
So look into the eye of the wind
that ruffles the hair of the forest, see how the sun casts light and shadow, and even the roses fall, blue water runs red at evening, on the strand where barnacled rocks dream.
There are sharp angles in the air,
wind-blown spring debris, rain-spits, the ghosts of melted ice somewhere north.
Slow stars stream like growing words,
and the vast book of the sky is already full.
We need never live, says the voice in the dark, the universe throbs with poison and joy enough.
So, what is there in this broken blue,
what magic lingers like salt in a sea-soaked sail?
Perhaps if I blow away with this breeze, fly
with wings of grass and feathered petals into the night, I will remember where they run, those bright rivers of light, and cup them in hopeful hands before they die.