by Gillian K Ferguson08 Aug 2013
It is the Moon’s word,
hung among whispering stars.
Luminous white root:
before dust, stone -
a heavenly body.
Wearing her soul.
Which is hiemal light -
as insect and ice wear exoskeleton.
Her own lonely species of light,
honed so frore, austerely holy.
Her shining, egotistical elegy.
Turned mad with religious purity;
hurt of her perpetual chromatic eyeful
of Earth - who got everything.
The thought of a flower.
Understanding the chattering letters
of life: warm organic noise
of water and blood, flesh and green,
from the curious blue.
A ragged rock-bowl of paralytic winter sea
hears her mesmerising, high word,
even in sleeping skin: on a membrane
of mirror ear-sheen. Real as a weird dream.
Twitches on her silver leash of light -
afflicting diurnal tides, slack water.
Trying to remember Sun languages -
dancing blindness, shattering into wet fire.
Poaching orange, corpulent autumn suns
going under: gutted gold light punctured
slowly from the yolk over syrup waves -
coagulating red, warm as animal blood.
But she is anaesthetised, her mouth full
of soothing mercury, drooling ashore -
her chrome fish sinking in their metal skins.
In Night’s black ink,
Moon’s white word is printed.
Voicing her negative, faux light;
reciting her perverse verse -
supreme sonnet of night’s dead light.
To the envy of teary stars glittering
like silver flies around her head -
until even a giantess, queenly tree,
wearing her jewel in keener’s hair,
winter tangle - like a nest of light
for trainee angels, fallen baby stars,
kneels to her long pearly waist
in the glimmering milk-soil.
And stunned blue Earth holds her breath -
listening. To hooted cries of the Moon’s
low-born apprentice; a startling white owl,
quicksilver-dipped. Fledgling night-angel
of the supernatural wild; kinetic ornament.
Perfect winged accessory in the shining
decorative schemes of minimalist night.
Hearing the murdered animal spirits
crawling, shocked, among deaf moss;
still rustling among windless leaves.
Brittle consonants of cracked insects,
lush vowels of bloody beating meat –
fur-fresh, succulent on crunching bone.
To humming conundrums of the disturbed river’s
signature identity crisis, perpetual impermanence
of mercurial skin; scintillating with glockenspiel
day-notes; a travelling argent heart of flute music.
Moon has stroked her to a purring silver serpent.
Smudging blue air with low-volume luminosity -
ghost of the closed honeysuckle bush, stoned moths
stumbling; glutted. White Lily brides who have failed
with bees: nunly they hang, offering up sweet sacrifice;
perfume as the last honeyed prayer of the loving flower
scenting death, mimicking Heaven’s remembered smell.
Moon’s bloodless sound has won the night.
Outsung both cymbal-crashing, bled Sun,
and melodious Earth, no longer breathing:
a silver-boned husk, pearl-blue memorial.
It is the Moon’s word only,
hung in black silence.