I am never far from tears.
They breed in lakes behind a dam
without a breeze-swept bridge to span.
The level rises till the tarn can stand
no longer calmly meekful as a mere;
but, bursting forth on unsuspicious friends,
she washes them, absolving them of fear.
I am now an open wound.
Like a fleshsome smile which never heals.
But that is just as it should be
or how could this man truly feel —
or be with wilting waxing worlds in tune?
and if the passion pus begins to ooze,
politely serve it with a silver spoon.
I am like a fish which gladly drowned,
whose scales were weighed and wanting found;
which soon then floundered upside-down
and gasps for air on barren ground.
By Spring that fish had morphed to two;
a silver cord connected mouth-to-mouth.
(Another endless case of déjà vu).
I am full of ardent yearning
for the love which cannot neatly find
some loud expression, soul or mind —
wholeness foiled by worldlings blind,
resistant to the thrilling blade of learning.
Yet I know this grief must deepen and expand
as for this dying age my reins are mourning.
I am flowing swimsome love.
Like rabid rivers’ bursting banks
which hold the future aeon’s hand,
while flooding lifeless bleak brown lands
and building there an olive grove with doves
where scented floral tributes are displayed;
our hands ensconced in one another’s gloves.
© Alan Morrison, 2017