I CONTEMPLATE THE SPIRALS

I CONTEMPLATE THE SPIRALS

Chiselled spirals
and falling streams,
that seem to walk
alongside me,
point the way to a
golden bough
that opens up
the western caves.

The caves that lead
away from the
benighted streams
of gas and drying
fluids which drop the
mountains from
the sky.

Water walks the fields
when winter slows,
and pulls the frozen
carpet that bleeds upon
the forehead of the
forest gate, back to
where the beating
of the summer's shade
can still be heard.

And like the guilt
of ages that hands me
down to the child's tear
or the father's frown;
or the failing maid
at her mother's breast,
who clings and grasps
to the tragic earth;

or like the painful
counting of my dreams,
or the shiny light
upon the endless blue
lake;

I contemplate
the spirals that
dim the haunted realms
within my
resting place.