Much love, blessings and all courage for the way ahead into these new, unknown and exciting times.
With love to all at Cygnus, and warmest congratulations for having stayed the course so wonderfully for this long.
Jehanne
Summer on Selsley Common
These could be the fields of heaven,
only we’re here now, in time and place,
with the lark rising, bathing us in trills
and paeans to the perfection of this
summer morning,
despite the barbarism,
the cold slicing of hearts and lives,
the ache of the unheard, unfelt tragedy of the wild,
the alone, the wars, erupting
out of invisible subworlds.
These, I say, could be the fields of heaven
(I would ask for nothing more):
swathes of citrus yellow bedstraw,
sacred to Frigga, Norse goddess of birth,
its upright spikes of tiny florets complementing
the clover, thistle, self-heal, scabious, orchid,
in every shade of mauve, magenta and palest lavender,
between the glitter of dancing grasses.
And there is more:
gold vetches, rock rose, mouse ear
and small spheres of white clover
in crowds,
nectar for the furry beefolk.
Here on the great barrow,
long despoiled of its ancient secrets,
high above the curving Severn,
where heavy clouds roll in from the
moisty west,
we marvel at the rapid coiling flight
of swifts,
mere inches above the flowering earth,
then turn and head homewards
along the wide grassy track.
Elysian fields, these, here,
on the edge of Cotswold,
and the heart lifts and gathers, sequestering the loveliness,
to revisit when tight fingered winter
dips over the landscape
and we seek
the inner sun.
Jehanne 07.07.2011
No Reference Points
Along with those, so many now,
whose letting go unravels their age
in a sudden burst of birth,
old memories are leaving,
rising from their comfortable armchairs,
no longer needing their structures,
books, potted plants,
their things,
moments fixed in black, white and sepia.
Old memories are passng through
a curtain
of fine rain,
over a threshold
into light.
Even yesterday dissolves
beyond recall.
Who are you, am I, are we,
without them?
Shapeless, immaterial, unmortal,
a consciousness without reference points?
We are nothing special,
forerunners perhaps,
trailing songs like ribbons in the wind?
Thrown from our familiar mounts,
bruised, open, becoming incipient points of shine,
we meet a portal into an unborn world,
a glow, a warmth, no material boundaries,
we are one to one, one into one,
no separation …
heralds of the sun?
Heart to heart here,
unbelievably, first time,
we are one another.
Jehanne 23.06.2011
