I suppose there must be wordsto describe that meeting,
but I for one do not know them.
Certainly
there are the words of all the experiences
occasioned by man
gathered and carefully nurtured
down through the countless years
he had to make those feelings last,
but how can the same sum total
of even all these
approach what really happened
that day?
Instead let me talk
of all the things that happened in the world
while for a brief moment in time
ours stood still.
I will talk
of the slow mellowing of a summer
not yet seen
and the golden promise
hidden within its lips,
better for the long wait
had in coming.
A warm coming it was
and doubly welcome,
the earth tempered
by the deep bite
of the rain,
and the longing even deeper
of which a rain
could scarce touch the meaning,
except to show beginnings of a satisfaction.
And I will tell you of the sight that day
when Spring unloosed her bonds,
the thongs of a winter long spent.
And the sweetness revealed
made man kneel
in wonder at the song she could sing.
If a cloud passed that day
it was not a cloud such as men know
in their moments of reason -
more a moment of softness
filtering into full flame:
a wave of colour,
whirl-colour corona
that flashed to the core of the world
in a stab of such sweetness
that reason had no reference
nor wakening.
And a song I will sing
of the surge of a wave,
and the depth of its pull
and the strength of its need,
for the hold of that wave
on such day as I knew
never called such a depth,
nor described such a view.
But it warmed and it lulled,
and its energy freed
all the bonds of an age
bound in linkage indeed -
though links, too, it forged
as the sheer salty taste
gave a new kind of bond,
born in fathoms embraced.
And on down through the depths,
filled with sheer, surging swell,
plunged the current of life,
learning lesson too well,
to a bottom so broad
that all knowledge could scarce
take realisation
there's yet end to the race.
And I'll tell you, my love,
of the bird which fled free
from those waves -
in spirals he rose
like a song to the skies,
sheer-song-silkened wings
of fabulous prize -
and he rose.
The sun drew him upwards
in circling song,
as if all earthy cares
and the worries of years
had been holding him back
for too long, far too long.
Ever up he still climbed
as he sought the white heat
of the glaring, bright sun
in his seat of the skies.
Great daggers of flame
flung from far out in time,
in ecstasy's grasp
caught at the divine
bird-like form
and it burst -
no form can bear so long sweet pain
and stay the same.
Down he tumbled many miles,
in long-swinging sweeps
and far-falling spirals
to the sea whence he came.
And his face hung with joy,
head flung back at the sky,
rolled,
and surged,
and sighing sank
with the lull and the suck of the sea on the shore,
and was still.
They say the world turned on its way
just the same that day
as it always did.
That all these things were no more than that:
just its usual wont to sing
or reason to chat,
and the sum of all this day's happenings
are life, in its way;
no more nor no less than that.
But I for one don't believe what they say.
For among these events
we met that day.
© John McNeil. All rights reserved.
This poem may be used free of charge, on the condition that copies are not sold
for profit in any medium, nor any entrance fee charged to a performance. In
exchange, the author would appreciate being notified of any occasion the poem
is used in public performance. He may be contacted at: soul.communication@outlook.com
Or at: 36B Stourbridge St, Christchurch 8024, New Zealand.