hallaig
03-06-2012, 11:50 AM
Through the Door
The sun is low over the shed,
but brilliant, rehearsing Spring
and there’s that quiet you get
when sound’s sucked out as if
waiting for something to arrive.
Suddenly there it is, hung between
the horizon and a cloudless sky,
a brilliant ball of colour in branches
bare, still clenched from winter.
And now the house is divided.
There is a school of thought
that it was a goldfinch
with the light so bright behind it
it seemed on fire,
and another that we were, as in
stories told in times of chaos,
visited by a simurgh, an alkonost,
a hoodwink,
here to remind us that stories do not end,
in fact they cannot end.
However it splits and complicates,
a mythology doesn’t finish at the door.
The sun is low over the shed,
but brilliant, rehearsing Spring
and there’s that quiet you get
when sound’s sucked out as if
waiting for something to arrive.
Suddenly there it is, hung between
the horizon and a cloudless sky,
a brilliant ball of colour in branches
bare, still clenched from winter.
And now the house is divided.
There is a school of thought
that it was a goldfinch
with the light so bright behind it
it seemed on fire,
and another that we were, as in
stories told in times of chaos,
visited by a simurgh, an alkonost,
a hoodwink,
here to remind us that stories do not end,
in fact they cannot end.
However it splits and complicates,
a mythology doesn’t finish at the door.