Smaragd Bows

Near the roof of the gorge
Surrounded by an arc of evening-crowned beeches,
Kneel: we are in the presence of royalty
It is wise to be humble; the least of them
Is more than twice my age, but more -
Their family is far older than mine

How can I tell you? When the leaves
Do something between me and the sun,
Do something between murmur and full chant,
Between Dance To and Be Danced with.....
And no living name stands for that colour -
All the words for Green place their heads
At the feet of that colour -
At whose bright heart is unnamed contentment.

We sit at Devil's Pulpit
Where the Light-Bringer holds forth;
Before us, below us, the delicate filigree skeleton
Of a dried up abbey far down in time and tourists;
Dim and behind us, a yew tree
Grows round, grows through, rock
Faceted by no man,
And will outlive us.
Leaf-gap light pebbles its floor
And oscillates, like our attention,
As the sun goes bronze.

How can I tell you? I cannot share this with you.
I cannot give it to you -
Can only make you a gift of this mind,
Reborn bright out of this Beauty, and worshipping,
On the wings of friendship,
The nameless colour


© 2000 Dharmachari Padmavyuha back...