53
After the night’s rain the sky was an inverted bowl of crystal
In which the kookaburra’s laugh was a musical repeating pistol.
The sky fell down in a glittering broken chord,
Each note being a mirror reflecting a face of the Word.
Splinters of light flew into our eyes but did not wound,
And tears, bright as flowers, sprang up and fell on the ground.
A great gentle wind, like the breath of a sleeping child,
Arose and filled every corner of a silent world,
And we had visions of voyages in ships with huge sails
To the Islands of the Sun where song never fails.
Then we noticed that the women had hung their diamonds on the she-oaks,
And that children were forming into choirs to recite Sanskrit sloks.
Then the Silence effaced every image from our minds and hearts,
And a seed of new love was sown that would become our new art.
He asks – You think the world of song is less real than your consensus world? Well let me show what my words can do. This is a world of glitter and light, of wondrous synaesthesia, of serene and protective presence, a paradisal world that can really be inhabited by lords of light. A world where rain drops on the needles of she-oaks are transformed to diamonds, where innocent voices of children sing ancient sacred hymns. Then a fresh effulgence of silence expunges it to make way for the freshness of a new vision.
A poem of spontaneity and delight. A world of inexhaustible freshness when our stubborn locked ego-need mental-sets are loosened. Living perception with wonder and emotion. Seeing, when it is linked to the heart, when it is poetry. Five or better still six beats to a line and enjoy with all the energy of the bird’s laugh.