Eric Ratcliffe Poems

Behind these yellow leaves I see the maiden of the moon's boat,
her smile straying, her light throat bent over the path of suffering.
Inside a convent of trees she rides, the Bride of my God,
floating a silver mile below her shining side,
...

In the essence between dragnet day;
in the peace betwen dwale and poplar;
in the twig and near holy things;
by Earth's deep sluices, in enormity
...

Long, long ago, before the puffin swam,
neither sun nor sail bewildered those
who, simple in their sleep, walked to a day
of golden trees and apples in the air,
...

A low arrow, I search the land
for her silver feet moving leaves
as she follows through spiced fields,
runs, or turns to a bird cry.
...

Thought was almost a wave-form,
an elusive violet
beamed from internal antennae;
western truths were without substance.
...

The old carrier wind has passed the bushes,
iridescent, set rare as pagan brooches
firm in the dress of the blonde moonfield
glinting with night jewels like a crescent,
...

Under star-clusters in the shell night
my gypsy god is riding in silver
over white auras of sleeping girls
and brown boys, charmed to awake
...

Uplever her night bones slowly,
expose them to lightning flash;
trowel her maid crystals gently,
under the burial ash.
...

Young and pale her dreaming face,
seeing through her sleeping hands
a fine running singing man,
firm legs over the southlands,
...

High wings over the fox ferns
from meres of the morning star
in a singing brown man's dawn,
gods of six golden suns
...