Up Early

To be Hollow

Somewhere between the graveled path I walk,
crumbled slate from another age and call,
and like me, sure gristed by passing feet
into sparkling sands of eternity;
and that sheltering forest of my prayers,
more shadow than light before the dawning,
is a hollow -- a place of silence and peace.

Soon I must, in sacred trust, start the day,
tending the lantern of haven's welcome,
singing up the triumph of attention,
and flexing creaking joints of soul's slumber
that has already embraced a starbirth
midwifed by love's caress from this Abbey
which pluck the strings of creation's lyre.

Stand before this hollow space and ponder.
A gentle wave of spirit's hand and heart
transcend the mists on whispered faerie wings
to unveil a mem'ried sea of pristine dew --
a million eyed reflection of your being.
There is no trace of yesterday's clutter
of discarded dreams and littered sufferings.

You must step across this silent, presage --
untouched by humanity's invention;
placing footsteps that will tell of intention
and state of mind's balance of pretension
which will send back a message to the moon.
Aye, this perfect concave grassy ovoid
will send a patterned coding to the heavens.

Will you shuffle across in dreary dirge
or skip a twisting melody of joy?
Consider a rhythmic confident march,
or dance a lick to a child's giggled tune.
Will you stride alone or wait for joining,
another's knowing grasp to guide and blend
with your gifted support and surer step?

A hollow bell resonates with its task
and speaks of design and forging of will.
Is this hollowed echo of creation
a dream -- or is it but a thumbprint
in dearest Mother Earth's fond embrace --
a sacral dimple or perfumed depression
between mountained peaks of perfection?

papa