The Beautiful

And mostly
I think on the darkness,
the craven,
the barren.
I think on the bitterness.

And I empty.

But that vase
I sometimes fill
with fragrant roses
and wild stems, fresh,
with heads blooming,
bursting bold.

And until decay,
as winter threatening,
displays it's rot,
I revel in perfumed
rainbow shards,
generous moments
propping up
the props
this sensual
false spring.

And I am there
In the beautiful,
bathing in a rich
purple light
lightly dappled
by leaves from
the last few elms
which stand away
purposefully distant,
sentinels in time,
a time that is past,
as we all are.

But not now.
But not here.

And I knot
a crown of cornflowers
and buttercups
and sun shaped daisies
and anoint her,
placing upon her head
the bright hues
which shine blue
and golden
and crisp white.
And she smiles
a broad, deep,
open mouthed 'yes',
all the while,
I, observing
the inside
of her upper lip,
her gum, pink and wet.
And then her eyes,
ghostly and girdled
by a circle of paler,
softer fractals.

And she sees me...

A furnace blast
with a lumpen force
cleaves my skull
and I spark,
absorbing sun,
soaking in her,
goddess of my emptiness.
She places her fingers
into the grey
and she grips
squeezing electric,
being shocked
by the tales
in virulent palette
that trickle worm
into her
and out of her lips.

And I grasp her hair
gently tugging it
pulling her nearer.
I'm fishing.
But there's really no need
to reel in.
She's definitely hooked
and she's swimming.

And above us
in the high branches
of the bedrock elm
the rooks are home,
observing our rituals,
hearkening to our
squawks, purrs and barks.
And I'm loving them
with their flapping,
squabbling and nesting.
As I am,

The rooks,
Can teach us a thing
and almost...
I can almost hear,
hear rookspeak.
And the voice
I think,
I think the rooks
repeating cry

'Keep her!'
'Hold her!'
'Love her!'


'Keep her!'
'Hold her!'
'Love her!'


'Keep her!'
'Hold her!'
'Love her!'

And the sun shines.
It shines royally
on us,
on this snatched at day
And I feel it,
I feel the heat
and I know
she's feeling it too.

And when I'm filled,
the beautiful,
it's as real as the real
And I ask you
'Why insist the everyday
is more than the ethereal?'
Perhaps your logic
and method scientific
emboldens you...
Those I discarded
some time ago,
so as to witness
and to reach out to
my beautiful ghosts.

And I'd rather be
beside the great elms,
in the beautiful,
in purple,
than walking with you
on those mean and trite
grey skied grey days
as we march
into the terrors.

The beautiful is dutiful,
she glows in my bones.
I am her home.
She paints hot,
she papers me bright.
And when I am taken
and stretched across
the infinite cold
she will burst forth
from my fractures

and she will
set you ablaze.