They’ve taken down the
shining light, and the
river, has returned to its
blackened, hidden self.
In that place of dreams,
night beds down, slow
forgetting tides and flow,
calling to the darkness,
arched as innocent surrender,
true to sightless possibility,
nothing seen, just imagined,
sounds of suckling mud,
as it flows, out of sight,
drifting in that sure way
of pure, and endless being,
as I step into the dream and
have no questions, for all
may yet be made ready,
for the chill kiss of dawn,
revealing what has been
born in ebony caverns, those
ephemeral figures creep,
drawn from Akashic realms,
dipping trailing fingers
into the wash of waves;
allowing the drown of
becoming, to release,
bequeath, unknown treasures.
‘What have you found?’
The voice rides liquid crests,
somnolent, searching, sighing,
at the breast of Soul; in
deliquescent dressing drench
of formless, rich potential.
‘I found myself,’ even though
I had not known I was lost.
Evening moon glittering
on strewn harvest of
luscious river weeds, torn
from their beds, and shaken
across the flooded earth,
dressing muddy realms, in
stalk, leaf and frond of now
slow rotting death and life.
rosross
