Pantoum for an abandoned car lot |
[Feb. 1st, 2010|10:52 pm]
Yarrow
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We built the holy place by accident: uprooted trees and planted streetlights high on winged pillars, proud against the night. We had no darkness there, no memories
of tree roots or street plants. Lighted high, each glowing surface promised future glory. We had no darkness there, no memories, no vision but the self, reflected in
each glowing surface. Promised future glory, we found the latest models, trimmed with chrome, but no vision. In the self-reflected mirror nothing lasted, nothing that
we found. The latest models trimmed with chrome grew old, stopped moving, finally vanished in that mirror. Nothing lasted, nothing.
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The unlit streetlight stands, a monolith grown finally old. Moving stops, vanishes in memory--the way things might have been, unlit by streetlights: a monolith stands strong guardian to mark the place renewed
in memory, the Way. Things might yet be redeemable: here there are the traces of strong guardians. To mark this place renews an ancient blessing on the fallow land.
Here, there, the traces are redeemable, of the face those builders carved. They saw deep, knew the ancient blessing: on fallow lands they weighed their careful steps and laid no stone.
Those builders saw the face they knew carved deep on winged pillars. Proud against the night, they weighed their careful steps, and laid no stone by accident. They built the holy place.
(An old poem of mine, for the Brigid tradition started by Reya and continued by Deborah Oak) |
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