Poem 155: In Pursuit of Reflective/Responsive Surfaces

blood and oil sparingly
spread onto a canvas
of dead leaves,
adding yet more stillness
to a stunning act of non-violence,
now sent skating, spinning,
across this highly polished
hardwood floor
all the way to the feet
of her slow motioned sitting
on a white cane chair,
in a pool of sunlight deep enough
to drown in.

she is brushing her hair,
absently mindful of the mirror
that beckons with siren intent
to awaken her voice,
there is thunder in this
and a stroking
of staccato light,
that drills into the walls
of her self made tomb,
and the world of air
and water rushes in
she can now breathe,
gazing off into the distance
of a dream
in liquid green grass
fused up into
the oasis of herself.

a kingfisher swoops
over the willow walk
blurring the prismatic image
of water and colour,
into an eloquent muting
as a raindrop
bends a blade of grass
creating an outrageous tension
that resolves itself
into our clear laughter
where points
of view converge,
echoing enormity
in the belly of the rock
where we are nestled
into the confines
of its metaphor,
whilst overhead
in the nail black sky,
birds of prey,
harsh with unopposable
screaming
in the beating of their wings
create a chaos
stepping down relentlessly,
where angels clamour
and fear to dread,
and yet do tread
across the marginal stain
of coppered light,
where the old man of brass
creates
a bubble in the brain
as a child of friction,
a child of heat,
your child
unknown to you
mysteriously living
on the street
where you live
where he quietly
and compassionately
creates a distortion
in the mirror
your mutual loss,
in which you can dream
each others dream.