The Poet’s Kyrielle
Slow night of cloudless navy skies
where silent stars withhold their songs,
the house asleep, but I sit on:
shall angels sing before the dawn?
The page is empty, words will not
form rhythms for my tongue to tap
in echoes of past ecstasy
when angels sang before the dawn.
This white sky waiting for the ink
of syllable and sacred tone
a scattering of runes unknown—
will angels sing before the dawn?
Each night, awake, I listen here
for sounds inhuman creatures make
a cadence drifts, falls to my ear—
God’s angels sing before the dawn.
Field my thoughts—
catch them in a net
hold them in a dream-catcher
watch the kaleidoscope form.
Catch them in a butterfly net
flying over colours of corn and wheat
watch the kaleidoscope form—
in shades of turquoise and jade.
Colours of corn and wheat
ripples of gold and myrrh
in shades of turquoise and jade
come rumours of emperor’s clothes.
Ripples of gold and myrrh
inhabit the fragrance of words—
soft rumours of emperor’s clothes
dance with the angels of light.
Inhabit the fragrance of words
hold them in a dream-catcher—
fluttering angels of light
dance in the fields of my thoughts.
That Undiscovered Country
Inside the pages
of every novel I ever saw you
sink into; every book whose tortured paths
I travelled, whose country lanes I meandered,
whose highways I traversed in dubious company
inside each book we read, separately,
sequentially, sometimes by recommendation
sometimes serendipity, we entered
of time, place, plot and character,
meeting old friends and new, finding
soul mates, escaping villains, hoping
for a final verdict that would dispense
justice with a masterly hand.
We met ourselves there.
I do not fear for you, my friend,
gone ahead into that last undiscovered country,
the book cover closed forever
© Julie Thorndyke 2015. All rights reserved.