Maiya Via Firelight

 

An speckled void yawns overhead

as the young girl stares up, thinking

wistfully where the starlight fled

once it has vanished. It’s not dead,

she feels, so it must be winking

for someone else out there instead.

 

(In the farthest reaches of sleep

truth assures her that nothing dies;

it simply transforms, and thus keeps

some essential meaning wrapped deep

at its core.) She burrows snug; tries

for sleep’s succour, hoping to reap

 

its harvest by letting night’s vault

close lidded eyes but on the fire’s

capering flames prance skittish colts

of crackling fancy that dance, bolt

and spark their hooves around her tired

dreams. She follows closely, each jolt

 

of their mane twisting in the night,

their wild pavanes mirroring her

wandering mind. In their soft light

she senses echoes of the bright

traceries of the stars’ course. There

is nature’s heart, where all is sprite,

 

all’s wild, all is fleeting. And then

she looks back, deep into her cave

at the shadows on the wall: men

have been here before; see a pen

to tame nature, make it behave

the way they need it to, so when

 

they are scared by unframed freedom

they can fool themselves, and believe

they are still its master. Soon, come

morning’s dew they’ll be convinced some

witchcraft, it was, dared to relieve

them of their senses, that the drum

 

they’re sure life marches to is still

theirs to command. The girl looks out

once more into the deep; the shrill

requirements of man’s urge to quell

wild nature, she knows without doubt

keep nothing fast, nor can instil

 

false order, or make passing sense

from something much too grand to tame.

The canopy twinkles, its dense

field of stars making no pretence

at concern. The same for the flame:

they sing out to her ears, “the lens

 

through which you mean to view us seems

clear, cogent through your thoughts alone.

Seek all you want, and dream your dreams,

but know that with us only teems

such wishful thinking as you’ll own

up to. Our ephemeral beams

 

are churl to no man. We are flight

through darkness, a vessel for your

cares in hapless times; we give sight

to your fancies, lend wings that might

lift hearts; we’re dream’s open doors

to walk through when all hope seems slight.”

no tags no labels take it as it is

◄ In Her Passing

won't you throw me a line? ►

Comments

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Martin Peacock

Tue 31st Jan 2012 15:21

Someone at my writers' group thought this was about a witch, simply because there's mention of witchcraft. Goes to show that people DON'T PAY ATTENTION!

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