On Thu, Dec 13, 2012 at 12:59 AM,
Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com>
wrote:
Before
the Dawn.
Arising in the early dark,
no reason that i know.
Contemplate the rise and fall,
of winter winds that blow.
Mindful in the mystery,
in shelter from the storm.
Enfolded in a sleeping world,
awaiting to be born.
Weighing all the ways of worlds,
in lulls upon the deep.
That fall in squalls on turning tides,
as i return to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the Dawn.
Or so it seems, a whole year's turning of moons, winter to winter, until, retrieving the elusive page with those words i wrote back then.
A momentary hint or gust of the same wind-spirit-sound down the chimney, stalking the elusive muse, while gazing into fluttering yellow flames in the coal black grate.
Till late, by the quiet of a clock's soft tick, feeling for the simple chords that fit. In modal muse of haunting ancient wind-voice song.
Slow dark tones that abide in timeless tapestries invisible as winged air, peripheral to a small circle of flickering light.
Where the ear's hearing is spiraled deep in a nautilus shell of the sea.
Or so it seems, in the season of bare branch-work traceries, with the soft leaves fallen crisp and rimed underfoot.
While the world waits with frosted breath, sleepers sleep the velvet deep of dreams, of gauzy underbrush, dark spiked holly and mountain ash, to the murmur and trickle of streams.
There is a mode of melody that runs deep, almost forgotten, in the age that is ending and old. Subterranean seams of primeval antique harmonies.
A small candle, lit, in a stone slab sill, holding the space of a haloed golden glimpse of vision.
Forever ancient in hushed gusts, the orchestrations of vocal themes. A certain archetypal, archaic, winter night-wind-wave of rise and fall.
Heaves and sheaves, obliterating scattered leaves, cold, round gable cornerstones, shivers, salt wind through pine.
The still dark, long before dawn, germinating the embryonic whispers of memory, traces of the pale as yet unarrived unveiling.
Heavy drape of curtains' vertical sentinel silence, sings obscure the dark of arched walls, in far remove from chronological mundane. Interstices of silence within the living void, spaces within, where forgotten earthly anthems are stored.
Ever the intrinsic soulful song unending, residing in harmonies of stone.
Flows out as the still mute grey light lifts, rippling around rocks. Carrying on the gossip of infinite variations on the indestructible anthem's regal theme.
Fluid fractal liquid crystalline pure molecular permutations, swirls and eddies from a sacred source. Flows down in the never ending, the quickening, seeps, seeking to curve through the long lush green. Sublime and slow, unbound between reed woven banks, intermittent rippled surface rings out-flowing, new shoots showing, catching first light.
Small tender leaf curls,
cobwebbed water meadows,
lingering mist veils.
The mottled song-thrush,
short sharp calls
from blackbird's beak.
Dry leaf rustles,
sweet herbs.
Around and through,
a slow, full, greenish
river curve.
A pleasing scene,
Earth redeemed.
The light, rising.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
RBM/ ~ martin
art : soft grey skies, martin law, march 2012
Arising in the early dark,
no reason that i know.
Contemplate the rise and fall,
of winter winds that blow.
Mindful in the mystery,
in shelter from the storm.
Enfolded in a sleeping world,
awaiting to be born.
Weighing all the ways of worlds,
in lulls upon the deep.
That fall in squalls on turning tides,
as i return to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Before the Dawn.
Or so it seems, a whole year's turning of moons, winter to winter, until, retrieving the elusive page with those words i wrote back then.
A momentary hint or gust of the same wind-spirit-sound down the chimney, stalking the elusive muse, while gazing into fluttering yellow flames in the coal black grate.
Till late, by the quiet of a clock's soft tick, feeling for the simple chords that fit. In modal muse of haunting ancient wind-voice song.
Slow dark tones that abide in timeless tapestries invisible as winged air, peripheral to a small circle of flickering light.
Where the ear's hearing is spiraled deep in a nautilus shell of the sea.
Or so it seems, in the season of bare branch-work traceries, with the soft leaves fallen crisp and rimed underfoot.
While the world waits with frosted breath, sleepers sleep the velvet deep of dreams, of gauzy underbrush, dark spiked holly and mountain ash, to the murmur and trickle of streams.
There is a mode of melody that runs deep, almost forgotten, in the age that is ending and old. Subterranean seams of primeval antique harmonies.
A small candle, lit, in a stone slab sill, holding the space of a haloed golden glimpse of vision.
Forever ancient in hushed gusts, the orchestrations of vocal themes. A certain archetypal, archaic, winter night-wind-wave of rise and fall.
Heaves and sheaves, obliterating scattered leaves, cold, round gable cornerstones, shivers, salt wind through pine.
The still dark, long before dawn, germinating the embryonic whispers of memory, traces of the pale as yet unarrived unveiling.
Heavy drape of curtains' vertical sentinel silence, sings obscure the dark of arched walls, in far remove from chronological mundane. Interstices of silence within the living void, spaces within, where forgotten earthly anthems are stored.
Ever the intrinsic soulful song unending, residing in harmonies of stone.
Flows out as the still mute grey light lifts, rippling around rocks. Carrying on the gossip of infinite variations on the indestructible anthem's regal theme.
Fluid fractal liquid crystalline pure molecular permutations, swirls and eddies from a sacred source. Flows down in the never ending, the quickening, seeps, seeking to curve through the long lush green. Sublime and slow, unbound between reed woven banks, intermittent rippled surface rings out-flowing, new shoots showing, catching first light.
Small tender leaf curls,
cobwebbed water meadows,
lingering mist veils.
The mottled song-thrush,
short sharp calls
from blackbird's beak.
Dry leaf rustles,
sweet herbs.
Around and through,
a slow, full, greenish
river curve.
A pleasing scene,
Earth redeemed.
The light, rising.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
RBM/ ~ martin
art : soft grey skies, martin law, march 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment
Hello, Here is your letter box! Post away. . .