tree near sacred groveIMG_6582

 

To become the stone,

 

Of schist,

 

The rock,

 

The song

 

Sung,

 

Drifting in the emeralds of awakening,

 

The clattering bone,

 

The feet wandering

 

Upon the sand

 

Of the wave lost

 

In the band

 

Of rain rent,

 

Long on the desolate

 

Sand-pipered shore…

 

To become the fire,

 

The pyre,

 

The blessed burning

 

Of the ashen dead,

 

From their cindered bed,

 

Sent into skies unknown,

 

Is to become

 

The wind against the flaming gong

 

To go,

 

And going, to be gone,

 

Over the moon-haunted mountain of mist

 

Where the flock

 

Of white geese

 

Wait, innocent,

 

Watching,

 

And waiting and watching,

 

They become an unbound

 

Eternity of snow,

 

Flown

 

Far,

 

Where the one who can never be found,

 

Hidden still in the fine gold traces

 

Of the ancient knowing faces

 

Of the gods of Kailasanathar,

 

Is always and evermore

 

Mother of the delicate

 

Blue tattered rose strung

 

On the sun-templed tree

 

Near the climbing windlit towers of the dawn

 

Of peace.

 

 

 

© Sharon St Joan, photo and poem, 2013