Poem: Visit to a Grave

mist

Visit to a grave –

We cross the threshold, passing through

The old iron gate; a defensive plexus to

Keep the dead in, and the living away;

A truncated giant okay, just there to

Mark, all the agony of that moment,

Still recorded in bark.

*

We walk further in. Two coronal yew

Trees look on, their energy sending out

A hum of blue, to muddy the mist’s

Omnipotence

 *

In that moment, I felt what it is to be

A Child of The Mist – A Founding in

The Fog – what it was to be a Celt;

What it was to put your ancestors

In the ground, as an offering to the

Same mists that bore you

 *

For the fog is our father – the mist is our mother;

From the fog we came – to it we Return

*

II.

But, there is more to fog than just this.

I know this, as I sit in the car, and the

Music of Brahms speaks sonic truth from

The stereo speaker – I know this as

The winter spirits amble – and

My spine is interwoven with a trellis

Of brambles

 *

I sit beside my mother –

Her partner in grief –

Her Second in Command –

She the Commander in Chief

*

For your Christmas Tree is not holiday

Paraphernalia, but a cosmic pillar –

The roots lead to the underworld –

The branches lead to heaven –

And the baubles are no ornaments,

But symbols of the spheres; even in

Your own living room, you can find

A map of the cosmos before you

*

III. 

If you could see the fog as I see it,

You would not see it as an obstruction –

As the senility of the landscape – but

The majesty of light, learning to see itself –

Of wisdom gently teasing itself, and pretending

It’s not there at all

 *

 

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