Image by prawny on Pixabay

Predawn and a Verandah of a Hundred Years

~The past, dead water of my eyes~

Remembered night flowers

footholds that became vanished waters

wet wet night of remembered tears,

full-bodied nuances,

and predawn stirred.

Predawn stirred,

like a prairie’s sigh rustles

under fading stars,

and my heart turned.

In the dense dense air,

my heart broke again and again.

The air, still — as still as fate lines

in any season in anyone’s hand —

sat on dewdrops moulded

into balled silences,

each one a reflected

chilled dream of fecundity

twisted out of a dead mans eyes.

My own eyes swam in dead water

that once rang to

calls of rainbows of fishes,

sang to herons and wildflowers

and watched wet wet nights

gurgle and softly sigh,

drink up days full of dreams

born in nights musky groin.

Pixabay

They held me, those Doric pillars,

massively strangely luminous,

so much like objects of worship.

In that hour of departing undead,

they held me,

as pain, like bitter treacle,

dripped from balconies

hung with sad vacuums

and stunned sleep of turtle doves.

O broken hearts,

sad and swollen,

of serrated Monstera leaves!

Such bright love, such moonlit moments

sang here once

like shiny green tambourines!

And songs of unborn children

scented with sea and cloud.

Pixabay

No spontaneous birdsong yet,

no lace shadow-wrappings.

Gipsy morning I want you so much!

I said,

I want you so much to open your arms,

let loose galloping color those

tremblings that whip death to life —

garnet snapdragons, cannas aflame like

tongues of taut desire

and marigolds’ saffron knife-smell.

Ashen yet,

but a dormant glory promise,

— mango, papaya, hibiscus dunes —

blue hands against blue cloth of pre-dawn,

blue sounds like primordial breath,

blue-grey embroideries of grasses,

they were all insomniac outlines watching

just watching, what was and was not,

what was to be,

yet to come wishing waters

that defy noontime moons,

air cut in lapis which calls

dying constellations that eternally

fall like dim magnolias on day’s golden breast.

Farida Haque

Image by prawny on Pixabay

Multimedia artist, writer, poet. ‘Celebrating other lives, I am a sparrow in the shadow of a rosebush...’ faridahaque@gmail.com

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