Test

I do not need to test my love.
But I am testing a new way of posting from my desktop.

Still blooming

We planted seed
a lunar time ago.
Moon has waxed and waned,
rain come down,
puddles stream to wash our hopes away,
winds blown cold and mild,
some frost descended;
but sunshine also,
dancing with the joy of May buttercups
and daisies on our lawns.
The young shoot feels the pain
of forcing through
the earth chilled hard and unyielding,
but still our blossom beckons.

I'm a rotten gardener.
I interfere too much.
If anything I plant should flourish
the miracle is another's,
not my own.

But that is what it is:
a miracle.
Another's hand tends our lives
and brings our fruit to term.
Scarlet as the blood racing through our hearts,
rose petals scent
the gardener and the gardened,
the tiller and the tilled.

Seed time may be done,
these four weeks or more,
but harvest has long months
of climate change
to wither grapes upon our vine.
The sower sees
so many seeds blown away
or taken by the birds
whose voices crow like carrion.
We live on a small island,
ever victim to Atlantic storms.
We shelter in each other's arms.

I have had to learn
to let the growing follow
its own green logic.

God give me grace
to let it be so.

05/06/08, 2.40pm

Eurydice

My love is in love with death,
infatuated,
ready to jump this way or that
if he crooks his little finger.
She knows he is a destroyer
but she doesn't seem to care.
She longs to subsume herself
into this early grave.

To me, on the other hand,
he is an old friend
I must treat with respect.
He visits each October
and I stretch my hands
to the cold flames
of his autumnal fire.
We sit and discuss those who have left,
with love and regret,
an end to mourning,
a closure.
That is his function in my life,
for life it is,
his visitation the frame around
the seedtime and harvest
of the circling year.

This is the time of her time also,
but he stands at her invitation
between her self
and the promise of her being,
seeking non-being.
She is life itself,
and he should be just the janitor,
opening the doorway
to a fuller life.
She runs to another, darker door,
leading nowhere.

I have tried to charm her
back to the sense of what is,
rather than what could never be.
My harp jangles
with the wrongness of it.
My head is turned also.
And furies lie in wait
to tear our love to pieces.

If I do not take care
I could be lost
in this underworld
of abandoned souls.

He smiles.
The race is not to the swift,
but to those who disengage
from his crooked gameplan.
Les jeux ne sont pas faites,
and he loses.

She has bet all on black.
The wheel spins
and keeps on spinning.
In the dawn the sky is red.
A warning.

Pray God she heeds it.
28/05/08, 08.08am