05 Aug Conscience of the Dreamer

Marching song sounds to history’s advance,
Changing tides, changing the river’s way
From unblemished seas to the tannic bay
Breaking on willow-clay and thistl’d plants.

High flies a tree-wind of ancient guilt
Swaying verdant braids of demiurge-tress
Searching for the right things to raise, to bless
Until it falls on the waterlogged bayside silt.

The curtains of the world drag on and then tilt
While I fight against a sleep I cannot yet confess,
But it finds me (holds me) in a Fabergé dress,
I search — I cannot find the sword of my spirit’s hilt.

A soul to the body, a song to the dance,
Unseen hands shaping vessels from the clay
Left no fallen feathers to the rote of everyday:
Things ought be abandoned not to chance.