Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

February 10, 2014

A New Legend, by Robert Adamson

In a friendless time the mind swims
out from its body: you become
all the lives you have ever lived.
In this clearing there have
been camp fires, though the ashes
are stone cold now. And the mist
just above the earth is
undisturbed. A brown kestrel flits

between the sun and the ancient
dwellings, its shadow a moth
wandering below the mist's surface.
Everything has been like this
for centuries. Sunlight struggles
through into the petrified
branches of charcoal; as I walk
I create a new legend here

my voice moves over the rock carvings,
my hands net for the moth's
faint dancing shadow, my eyes
vanish into the back of my head
and a small creature stops running.
The water lies still in granite
waiting for the chance to sing anew;
under the mist I become

a thousand echoes, sounding for
the time being. Wherever life emanates
it's born from my careful presence
here, treading: mushrooms bloom
in my footsteps among the ashes.
The mind moves ahead of my
body now, feeling the new wings,
wondering if they existed before.

Its thoughts lift me above the ground.
I look down at my body, a feeble
creature moving through its own silence.
Moss clings to my thighs, the kestrel
dives into the clearing hooking
up the creature I taught not to fear.

Mulberry Leaves: New and Selected Poems 1970-2001.

Posted by Delire at February 10, 2014 12:04 PM