The Bright Season of Yourself

You were coming into

the bright season of yourself,

the one full of impossible clouds

and rivers bridged by your

intoxicating plans.

You were electric and formidable

in those striding hours,

in which your heart had taken

the full and painful cup of the mountains

and savoured the silent wine,

in which those consumptive childhoods

that clung to you

fell away like blades of grass

as you rose from the burnt crow fields.

Sometimes you crawled into yourself,

into that ancient and suffering place,

built of the walls and stories you told

of the world you didn’t want to face.

But then everywhere

the scent of freshly shaved afternoons

on the returning breeze

and the hum of dragonflies

in the gardens you scattered

deep into the ripe valleys

and the days drunk with your arrivals.


Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014


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