Tales from the edge of the morning sky Paul Morris

Spring in the Garden of May.
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Even if I…


Even if 
the sun,
I feel 
were blind, 
I would like 
to hold 
your face 
in the quiet 
of my hands, 
and trace 
just once,
my fingers 
upon
the tributaries 
and streams, 
of the life 
that has become
the beautiful 
you, 
to feel 
a thousand stories,
journeys 
and emotions,
joining 
a stream,
a flow,
of stars,
to a river
of journeys, 
that I cherish
in wonder
that I feel,
in the music
of living
and life,
that is
born 
in me
with you.
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For if
there is,
truly,
a Spring 
in winter 
let me drink 
then,
deeply of your 
beautiful eyes 
to see the dawn 
of morning blue,
for laughter 
is the sunlight
of March
that rises,
beautifully 
in the blossom
of life
that is
simply being
and walking,
the path
with you.
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They
He pulled. Felt her hand in his. Remembering her taste. Her smell. The way her body cleaved into his. His into hers.

Mustiness. 
Earth. 
Wonder. 
Urgency.

The earth crumbled around him. It matted his arms, legs and lower back. 

His hair. 
His beard. 

He sat up. Felt the dull ache, the throb of life to be given fill his awakening being with her. 

To her.
She could see him now. Lifting himself out of sleep. His own dream wrapped around him. She released his hand, reached over and kneeled beside him. She cleared the soil, earth, pebbles and stones from his  feet, his legs. Saw his rising. Spread her warming hands and cleared away the earth and winter from his torso, his arms. 

His eyes were still closed. She caressed his face. His beard. And combed his hair with her fingertips. His breathing, before, once shallow in intervals of time, slow and season, deepened as he trembled with the beginnings of power that infused him.
His eyes filled her soul with his form. Half known. Half remembered. A sense of knowing and possession filled her heart and senses.
They joined as the sky lifted.He the earth. She its Spring.They pushed and pulled and bound and knotted the spaces born in life and time between them. 
A circle of birds arose. 
Like leaves re born from yesteryear. They too combined in runes and patterns remembered long and hard, instinctively opening, outside, inside, and up and to the light above them.
And in memories, coupling and murmurations, she and he, the two,  entwined again and again, the great pulse of life, 

Again and again, they lifted seas and sons; the cycles born of time and place between them.
It began to rain.




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February Afternoon
The sun sets
long shadows,
cast the distance 
upon the broken 
garden wall

But amongst 
the cracks,
the silence,
beneath 
the settling
dusk 
of late afternoon 


A blackbird
sings, his voice
catching 
my tears 
one by one
as softly, 
gently 
the rain begins
to fall.
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S(he)
He was awakening. The stiffness of sleep held him tight within its arms. The winter stars were wrapped in sheathes of time about his legs and lower body. From somewhere outside of himself he could feel a growing sense of urgency. A warmth. A remembering. He needed to remember. Wanted to remember. But a great fog of darkness still held him. Whispered to him. Wanted him to remain within it.
Somewhere. Somewhere.
‘Here.Here.’ He could sense his own voice outside of himself. A movement beyond his own vision. A feeling. No more. 
Shapes formed around him. He felt a tightening within him. A gnarled, knotted network of strength that rooted him down began to pull up from deep beneath him. Answering a deeper call from the pressing darkness around him.
There it was again. And again. A pulse. A throb. A release of heat into what he could feel awakening above him.
‘I must move,’ the thought, if that was what it was, an impulse, a command, came into his consciousness. He felt the pull upwards. Strong. Ancient. Remembering. 
He knew he lay between roots, trunk, branch, leaves to be and the great emptiness of sky.
Something was tracing upon his still bound hands. Patterns. Repeated. And again.
‘Runes,’ the shapes, became sounds. The sounds, familiar, became repeated, and grew into words. The darkness around him began to thin. Began to dissipate. Light, for that was what he remembered, slipped between the stars and spread in warmth around him.
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