My Beautiful Ruins ~ And Why The Irish Needed Fairyland, Religion And Poetry Poem by Alla Bozarth

in my ruins I would have smooth, polished petrified
wood at the corners of prayer benches, for lovers
to brace themselves to keep from falling on stone—

there would be a potato field growing right through
the edges and earth lovers early in spring would harvest
their beautiful lavender, pink and white blossoms with
their golden centers poking up through the middle of night,
the whole flower still luminous, pulsating like starlight

and later the fruit of the flower, hidden under earth,
when discovered and brought up by rough but triumphant
hands and given to heat would taste delicious, mashed
with milk and salt, with fennel and butter and cream,
and served with rose red tomatoes and legumes and thyme,
with wild greens and fresh salmon or trout from the stream—

and around my ruins there would be a stand of oak
that had been there for a thousand years, and behind
the gnarly trees would be a sacred wood that belonged
to this holy place, or rather, the place belonged to
the mossy forest and its ferns and waterfalls—
and for music and incense, to pilgrims' paths between
turquoise lakes from where the rich living streams were born~
and all the ruins would remain fresh as spring morning,
even in winter and rain, full of birdsong and open to all~

but to humans, only once in awhile and a few at a time,
between whom there would be such empathic understanding
that they scarcely would speak, but touch and commune
with their hands and their eyes~

and preferably the ruins would welcome
solitary poets who would not desecrate the place
with willful plans for tomorrow~

but make a drink from the sunlight and stars
of today and tonight, forever today and tonight~
where dreamers are welcomed but
no reckless drunks are allowed~

And now I have told you the secret of all wise souls
and all holy places under sun and cloud