Soft cotton on the staircase, velveted all around...
Ghosting whispers, faint airs drifting...
Eternal calls.
Passing up and on, turning twice...then
The door.
Into the night, away to the depth...
Where clocks rest,
Where sparrows nest,
The love of a woman lies in shadow-darkened
Skies.
Bright rings put away on brocade, long hair
Taken down...combs on the table...
A loving call, Eternal call...
Flowing silk to laced windows...
Slender fingers brush the panes...
Thick mists forming.
There was no warning.
Into the night, away to the depth...
Where clocks rest,
Where sparrows nest,
The love of a woman lies in shadow-darkened
Skies.
Dancing shoes, laughing eyes, sherry
In the parlor...
Crystal glasses,
Christmas Holly.
Candles alight...mirrors hold the trees
Of years ago. Living on. Never taken down.
Forever Christmas.
Forever the loving call.
It reads to me as a ritual procession of pleasant experiences playing and replaying in the memory. The experiences pass by as collections of images that evade objective definition.
You paint your images in water colour - play with the sound of a century ago - there is something softly elegant about this piece with a sadness that is sublimated by the bright crystal and the scarlet holly berries of her dreams. I poem to savour. love, Allie xxxx
... sensual, but so much more. I could fairly catch the drifting sent of timelessness, antiquity alive, somewhere between sandalwood and very old oaken wood... many doors to open here. Wonderful!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Another one of your fascinating and evocative poems. So many images and hidden shadows lurking in a history being recalled. Your title is revealing. A rose is beautiful but does not last very long. Ivy never dies, just keeps growing, clinging, rising and smothering all that it reaches, never satisfied but still beautiful in its own way.