The Poet
Amongst the Hawthorn hedges
The poet walks
And close to him
Are the songs of the air
And the streams.
His broken shoes
Get caught in the blackberry bushes
The pathway is marked
By drops of blood.
With eyes looking heavenwards
Which is in front of him
His heart sings
Songs of love
A red flower is
Between his teeth
His hands are empty.
The mountain and the sea
Far away yet close
Cross over him
Ancient lullabies
Made of mystery.
The poet stops
And listens to them.
His eyes bewildered
Far away
His hands are empty.
And from his heart fall
Sweet notes
Notes of blood.
In a very sweet death
He gives them
To the creatures of the air
His friends
From the streams to the clouds
From the earth to the light.
Never were poverty and riches
Agonising pain
And infinite pleasure
Death and life
So well blended
In one earthly creature.
Never were the earth and the sun
The infinite and the violets
So well imbued
And so well joined together in a mystery:
A heart.