Dream Of Wyverns
The plane of grief is unrelieved
by fence or furrow, tree or cliff. It
stretches out a flight of new moons,
a river of crow's wings
hiding its eyes.
In the distance wyverns pace, their
asp-tongues a piercing, their growl-song sharp
as a whispering sting
poisoning dark.
To walk this plain
you must step over bones,
speak the language of ravens,
earn the kisses of crows
see the colors like bats
flat and profound
forever dependent on wavering sound
as it pours from the red well,
a bucket of misses splashing cold drown.
Everything here is
a secret of night. Black
angels drop like char on the snow
in peace as they fall
on the crow's nest below.
June 2023
posted for Open Link #8 at desperate poets
Images are taken from the internet, artists unknown. Fair Use
I'm not sure how Wrestling Angels kept to high folk who either fly or fall -- usually the tandem is angels and devils, former seraphim enlisted in Dark One's dirty work (like these wyvern). Grief is poorly encompassed by either angel or devil, but dark blues works in both lists. Which is good, because the pain is scintillant where "the plane of grief" ..."is a river of crow's wings / hiding its eyes" and bats circle "the red well, / a bucket of misses splashing cold drown." Yaysus. How does anyone keep refusing Michael's ferry to endure this? Oh yes: to name it better for the next grieving sot to cry in the rain. Well done.
ReplyDeleteHa, I posted one on grief too. I adore the stanza "To walk this plain". Just wonderful writing.
ReplyDelete“ The plane of grief is unrelieved
ReplyDeleteby fence or furrow, tree or cliff. It
stretches out a flight of new moons,
a river of crow's wings
hiding its eyes.” - that is amazing.
Will it sound weird if i say that this seems almost too personal to intrude upon with my nattering remarks? In any event, I will plunge ahead and say that this is a startlingly potent depiction of a certain state of mind, one that is extremely difficult to put into words, and yet here it is, and for that you have my unrestrained admiration. This was no mean trick, Joy. There is a level upon which the dream mind and the waking emotions merge, or become indistinguishable, and it all turns to smoke the moment we try to examine the landscape. It seems to me to be to be a place in which one's spirit must simply be, harrowing as that is. The idea if wyverns is a genius stroke here.
ReplyDelete"of", not "if."
Delete