Shiva lay within the bullace hedge
and blinked a third eye:
I hummed a hymn, picking up windfalls;
at my stooped back cars brushed dusty by.
With a camera round my neck
and a stick for walking far,
I felt no menace
of any channeled car.
Shiva smiled within the bullace hedge,
tattooed on his talking drum
the laughter and the lightning -
shuttering sunlight on a plum.
With a stick for gathering high
and a map for wandering,
I felt no decision
worth the pondering.
"Shiva, tell me swiftly,
to what future will I turn? -
brambles so quickly flyblown,
then bird flocks churn;
by a sea-gate water treacles,
its descending theme undone:
I am here now with my camera;
but what will I become?"
Shiva grinned within his wiry hedge,
extending fist and open palm:
"I have not come to bless you;
nor yet to offer harm.
Stalky heron umbrellas past,
disguising you in mist:
perfect shots were never taken;
perfect lips were never kissed.
You see me for a moment;
I hear your whispers clear:
- What's a shroud in all eternity?
What eyelash blinks your fear? -
See how your prints become you:
draped within their blinding light,
between the pavement* and the road-edge
memories whiplash into sight.
But this will still suffice you
for all you shall become:
you are the fumes upon the light
the dust upon a plum.
...................................
*'pavement' is 'sidewalk'
YOU ARE READING
Tapestries
PoetryPoems from 1978 onwards. These poems are in a different style from the later MajorSeventh, the earlier ones often with more of an Eastern-influenced cadence. Later, they vary a lot in form and style.
