The song of a
dying white unicorn—
he bowed his
horn in meadow flowers spun,
and flee not
the coming wrath, neither run.
From his brow
unfurled the steeple, his horn.
There was a
text of prophecy then borne
to earth
within his vestal silver frame,
the word
spoken from ancients was his name
and in a
rustic stable, the child born.
Rhema would
guard his cherished golden head
and beams of
light fell from his mercy eyes
to oft
transcend the poverty of earth,
to feed the
multitudes on coarse dark bread
and read the
signs of the celestial skies.
To apprehend
the curse, there is no curse.
What novice
could hide herself in a cell
and know the
living presence as a flame,
to walk by
candlelight medieval lane;
to hearing
ears, mystics’ chants and prayers fell.
Read the song
again, this book is poem:
there is a
repetition of its thread,
there is
salvation in its bodice bred,
there is the
hope of an eternal home.
Who built
these stone walls of fierce workmanship?
Was there a
foreman, mason on the site;
the very
brick denotes his pay. Who paid?
Some man of bright wisdom or fine wealth, it
pleased him,
such a great castle, where no blight
would
devastate your cares and hopes, or raid.
No one can batter these walls, brokenness
is not the
form of a healthy woman:
lexicon from
the glance of sainthood wan,
the nuns
protect her vows in eagerness
to win her
favour. St. Clare is patron
of this
fragile heart prepared for vastness
of a heather
tundra, windy, restless;
there are
dreams within the green eyes of sun
through the
windows of the cathedral tall—
the light
that falls on us in silken streams,
anointing of
the green olive oil tree
in a lonely
chapel, wooden and small,
that overcame
death and decay for beams
of fluent
light and laughter. Sit with me.
I sit on the
bench. I am in the hall.
I travel in
ions of turquoise hues;
I mesmerize
my audience with blues,
melancholia
sells tickets to all.
There is a
long line of wealthy patrons
who want to
buy their way into this world
of theatrical
curtain calls and twirls
of lines,
rehearsals, pinafore aprons.
We have our
way of crossing the dark stage,
there's a
rope holding the curtain, which sways
in midnight
colour of deep navy blue.
Who stands in
the shadows? Is she nymph, sage,
in darkness.
Lighting the candle in ways
that are now
spirit-led and keep us true.
Her head is
high, she thinks and rises next,
speaking her
lines to us like a sharp horn
that
catapulted her into black thorns,
with a bright
trumpet call to rouse the dead.
If the
thistle of criticism had
not
frightened her she would have been quite calm,
the tide of
sea would sweep in as a balm—
salt, but her
voice rose to a fevered mad
and obscene
tone; it was a fearful deck
she had been
dealt. The blackened Queen of Spades
gathered her
powers, and regal, she spoke:
I am the land,
the earth writhes, its slim neck,
reputation
that would save from Hades.
Mock me not,
for earth disappears as smoke.
We sought her
favour like a drum that beats
its rueful
pilgrimage to the stone heights
of mountains,
with rocky canyons, and brights
of sunset
upon dusk, the bard her teats,
and weaver
spun this glory as a song.
Where the
beat kept on, we gladly in line
followed the
mother’s milky breast, a sign
of her truth,
gold lion’s mane, and tail long.
When no real
lion roars, then no one tastes
the soup and
bread of her table, no one
believes she
is just. Maybe they refuse
to eat what
she prepared, in lower castes
of denial and
want (they say I’m done);
in homely
ways the haggard beggars choose.
The well-fed are not eager, bones and skin,
for the court
of the prophets, where Rhema
bows the
unicorn’s horn, dazzling schema
of the inner
world. For you go within
to find peace
from despair, and bow your head
in rest upon
a Saviour’s breast. Molech’s
night of the
star’s soul gives you no solace,
though you
toss and turn upon your plaid bed.
The horn was
righteous blessing on your day,
but you
preferred the night of pallid fright,
who would
prefer a nightmare to a dream?
The ship of
your mind sailed into the bay—
a way to find
unicorn’s linen-white
side or have
her sew the lovely shell seam.
