The Triumphant Note

Did you read the triumphant note I left you?

About white fields, small fox carcasses and the child who played the horn?

I told you of lightening rods that stood at attention

Like the trees in fields remembering the forrests of their youths

Standing to look out, standing to search, waiting for them to return

There was mention of windows and us

Window sills are the great shelves in our lives

Holding the frailest of life's living beauty and then waiting for us to lean from their frames

They are living canvases with the gallery closing when the shutters are closed

On the bed dead moths fall 

In Russia people are trying to justify the movements from three decades ago

Is history a form of blanket to keep warm with?

Is poetry a grave to fall face down in?

And somewhere the mildest of men is watering down his steps

Wondering why church pews must be so ornate

And so hard

The wind brings his fringe up and for a second he looks like neither his mother or is father

A human and monster

God does not recognise him

He is his own creation for a never ending second that does not exist

And the water, as it falls, reminds the boy with an erection of treacle

It is the sound of the word 'treacle' that is the sound the water makes

As it falls from sky, to roof, to gutter, to ground

At some point the music makes a word and the boys mind wonders from flesh to food

His erection is lost to age and he looks back on this day when he hears the rain in old age

His father gave him a gun, a pistol, as a boy

He had never smiled so hard his mother cried

His brother had died at war, hanged from a tree for being a nuisance

For being a philosopher, a coward, and a killer

To be all three, as well as a frenchman leaves you with a ribbon around the neck

And a crown of laurel leaves

The sea it rose and it rose and it rose and a ship was built by a band of women

They do not want any men on this ship

They forgot to remember any riddles or jokes or good tales and quickly grew bored

They turn to writing bawdy poems

And to relieve themselves they use the most beautiful creature on board, the horse with its horn

It was dead within the week

Was the most beautiful bulding you have ever seen a church with its drenched spires and coughing whispers?

Or was it perhaps the library, cold, and full of boys reading books on law and an artist's portrayals of rounded and beautiful breasts
You are the only colour in my autumn that is worth seeing
And the flowers that are moved by your glance all become hysteric
They are beautiful, all nature is, your face is
And I remember the golden sunshine,
I remember the trees with their ancient dust
I remember the rocks that I sat upon
And I became mute with the size of largest world I ever did know
Here is my poetry
Here are my words
And I care for you
I care for you because I want to be delirious
You are my eagle
And Olympia can not be too far away