As the poet takes her balcony seat
to see the greatest show on Earth,
the magician takes shape on stage.
Their eyes meet at the mystic table,
where each suit of divination lays
within mind, body, spirit and soul.
Merlin stands alone in white robe,
red cloaked before the table of life.
The poet reflects on the cliff’s edge
with a pure, inspiring naturalness,
her greatest journey about to begin.
In her left hand a single white rose,
granting her virtue, purity of soul.
Knowing she is protected by love,
she holds softly the faith of a child,
hearing not the whispers of others.
At certain times of the year, mostly in times of battle,
two dry sticks rubbed together light the ancient pipe,
since this year’s suffering has nearly swept the board.
For even as peace burns all tribes are affected by war.
As smoke trails round, poetry turns my body full circle
onto dropped knees, until the door of my heart, sacred
shrine for the Creator, opens. The holy traveller enters,
seeking sanctuary and shelter for the light of the world.
As the poet goes up in flames,
the fire sways under the stars,
unfolding its tentacular arms
to hold tight the wooden box,
while, burning inside, embers
ignite the Soul’s cosmic eyes.
In the graveyard, kinfolk wait
with the hollow already dug.
Sad faces with twisted fingers
upturned to the shamed sky.
Dogs bristle with sorrow,
ready for the howl of death.