A red line born of muck in kiln fire;
All crack and crumb, length of broken
worn out time.
Ivy! Reefed and loose
A secret held.
A dream of power and coin that sent me here.
A ghost of ancient oak that stands askew.
Unyielding guard of hidden history
and of dark secrets whispered to the wind.
An hour of tug and tussling ensues.
torn on a store of benign neglect
that runs along a sharp and shattered edge.
Old wraiths of masonry and mortar sting
and bloody skin gone soft from
To reveal what?
A wilderness of weed
that had once held shape and hope and dreams
I have seen
the forgotten form.
Phantoms hidden under brush and seeded ash,
sullen and dark against October’s frowning face.
A garden now on plan and
and the heart of three washed sepia
Beautiful but lacking any real detail.
Memory only of another time
that lives on
in a broke
and aging mind.
To be reclaimed, this dream of one ancient.
Paying for a tune, deaf ears will never hear
Then I see, in singular perfection,
a surviving fancy
or some hybrid.
But a whip of bramble only,
hanging high, backlit by washed out Autumn sky.
A jewel inset with heart of lustrous black,
a promise of purple in refracted light.
A perfect berry
and all that such holds.
No bloom of grey or mould but firm and bold
a shining face
full of October sun.
Machines will come on Monday morning
to a plan
To re-form this vision of a memory.
I have faith at last because I have seen.
in this dream, here already
without the hand of men.
© Dave Kavanagh 2016