"Let the priests of the Raven of
dawn no longer in deadly black
with hoarse note curse the sons
of joy. For everything that lives is
Holy."
-Wm. Blake
(1757-1827)
Raven feather, clime to weather, those seasons of
unbelief/new Autumn breezes cool vistas unaware.
Soon to September, fields are burning-light pools in segments
among the trees-recalling spiral light of winding white
those tattered stars or snow drift mist in bright columns. Beatific
inspiration which overcomes/ O inner chambered
Heart song, out of the well spring-so lonely and long we sing,
yet salvation finds us. And all matter of inward wandering/
I speak to the living and the dead now~ of self strewn
against this gulf of paradise, behind each empty shadow.
Out of haunted time, Love or extended Grace
entwining~hope rain linger/scent of Summer's ending-What willow
weeps your steepled sky? Whitest tiny butterfly and sunflown into becalming
winds.O resurrection, O forever [now this unity of Grace informs
us.] Raven feather, clime to weather, our radiant day together not
ended- as we gaze like stars into Heaven.
-T. Byron Kelly
Late July 1998
Revised
5/3/2008
No comments:
Post a Comment