"Beauty is truth,
truth beauty,
that is all Ye know on Earth,
that is all Ye need to know..." - John Keats

Thursday, 24 November 2011

Search for Skylark...

The vacant streets emptied of life,
the tiny flicker, teased and now far, gone...

Oh where, where, I ask, to search that distant skylark,
in the boughs darkened with soot of distance,
or on the waters deep with waves of mistrust?

Oh how, how, I ask, is it to reach,
that twig on which fluttered the single leaf,
the branch, dried in winter's wrath,
where lay in peace skylark with its song?

Deliverance, my lame saint, I cry,
deliverance from this quest,
for I was not
one designed to sit and wait,
fiddled is my restless soul, earnest...

If only lied this heart of curiosity,
or in silence, remained in a desolate moor,
if only existence meant slumbers,
in a ship destined to moor,
I, with all grace would embrace silence,
but life is earnest, it is swift,
and I curious, with time do drift...

In these moments where I see myself shiver,
I ask, did I mistake a hailstorm for shower?

Harboured my thoughts, anchored my love,
I pause, and cast the thought lantern on that lonely beach...

Humour, ah destined end,
for now in this moment,
there is nothing that I see...

Down to the old man's play,
resigned and resting,
I humour the Old Saint,
with my lame gait and
humourless speech...

I ask the Lame Saint a question for which he smiles,
I wonder what humour he finds in my trials,
yet I persist, I ask again,
Where is the skylark,
who sang so sweet?

I am met with silence, he chooses to sleep...

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