Poems to share from the Pente Poets.
Self-heal Here’s the lichened gate, pale as willow, and that bare tree, limbs jutting skyward. Was it here, washed and still the meadow beckoned: betony, eyebright, self-heal? Now even sound has altered. Oak leaves shifting. Birdsong unease. The lane darker, deeper. Still we seek comfort in small things: stonecrop, speedwell to send us on our way. We forget how quickly light changes everything, how nothing stays the same. Lyn Browne Gorselands, June 2012 TEN YEARS IS NOT SO LONG
You have not changed. And winds that bore you from me like sails of neon men-of-war, full-thrust against past tides of cities, lit with efflorescent lens of dew and myriads of time-shined spores have kept you - I, the wind-maker. You have not changed. And I, the firefly and moth of constant dreams and surging sands,these fluxing tides of shifting in the glow of ancient keeps, built high on wave-strewn coastlines, gusting with the banshee scream have kept you - I, the wind maker. You have not changed. And clouds that bore you in me light as dusk on distant forms of stream-swept jade sweeping past sweet banks on polished sleds of glass fresh-cut from Chartres’ ancient rose have kept you - I, the born-on-wind. You have not changed. And youthful blooms of forest depths lie swimming in the galaxies of starfish, lighting with their fires the phoenix of never-ashing keep, fanned high by winds that bore you to me sails that kept you - You, the wind-rider. Brad Drew © 1976 London Balancing act
We step across wide water, taking our time. Breathing: it’s taken most of our life. You shout and I can’t look back. Water dark as guinness – what made us think we could risk it? Out here in the middle the river fizzes faster. Too late to turn back. Green rocks now, lank weed stranded, every one a slippery stretch and the far bank receding. Alone together, balancing, too far apart to clasp. Lyn Browne |
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