They laid me in the earth, too deep to feel the sun's
              warmth, or the tickling roots of grass.
       For three nights I lay silent, open-eyed,
              breathless. Seeing nothing in the blackness, a strange
       entrancement, unmoving and disabled
              and utterly absorbed into the night. On the third
       night, hunger, raw and red, thrust my arms
              Up to the sky, swimming through earth, erupting
              into blinding white and silver. Soil
              Fell from my face, my eyes, my mouth.
       There was someone nearby.
       I smelt & felt & heard & tasted & touched the
              mind and the body warmth and all the secret fluids
       That give life - then turned and saw,
              in one living thing, ambulatory larder, cocktail
                     shaker in human form,
       Warm red barbecue on 2 legs.
       And I fed.......
       Aaah, a tasty world!
       And so much of it.
              So many of them...

      © Joules Taylor, 1995


(Pages from a notebook)

'...this little o...'

                                      Inside the Cove was a stillness
                                                   and the silence of grass growing,
                                      and standing between those two specific stones
                   there was safety. On the edge
                                      were tourists, ear-pressed to rock,
                                                         Did they hear anything?
                                      Echoes of voices down the millennia?                                                Whispers of ancient songs?

                   A chorus of grey guardians
                                      ignored our progress along the Avenue. We reached
                                                 a hill filled with holes.
                   Within the Sanctuary a young man performed Tai Chi
                                      for his quietly watching friends, and somehow it was
                                   fitting - a link between the ages compassing
                                                         the world.

                   Relief on West Kennet long barrow.
                          Within, time-honoured stones and blackness,
                   running water, cold dryness, mud and old decay.
                                      Without...An arch of cloudless blueness and a
                                          drowsing sun slanting long shadows across
                                                         the land,
                                      Our world encompassed in a tiny span
                   from horizon to horizon -
                                      A distant obelisk's admonishing finger, a top-sliced
                                           cone, a dance of stones,
                   Stars above veiled by brightness,
                                      Earth below, her bones still bearing flesh
                                                in rippling green waves.

                   On Pan's Bridge we found an owl.
                                      A hundred amber eyes gazed from its whiteness
                   in puzzlement that man-made death had snatched the air
                                  from under the clouds of its wings.
                   A phantom shape, its feathers too soft, too ghostly,
                                  for human hands to feel.
                                                   Only the claws were real, curved for killing.
                   We took two feathers, weightless in our hands,
                                      stood in silence a moment to commend Brighid's bird to
                                  Cernunnos' keeping,
                                      and moved speechlessly onward to rejoin the dance
                                                         through last autumn's rusted leaves.

       © 1989 Joules Taylor

© 1999 WordWrights.

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