Walking to the Moon
An uncertain beginning, and all is anticipation of our histories foretold. Imagining Genesis inscribed in memory of everything. Sunrise at the opening hour, Creation’s revelation now the perpetual is waiting for all that moves here as infinite. Such untraveled time to be in noon light revealed as truth composing the words proposed. She strides through the rain, feet almost dancing on stone in the rhythm of the storm, her mind elsewhere, a dream of strangers and other places open to speak in love of what might be and a prayer in the darkness when day is one life, the night another becoming every chance that falls beyond all who see her. Or a life of waiting time broken by the mind she has made, remembering indifference is everything. In that moment there was nothing when the song was in the stillness of a certain world with no sound spoken even for the time. When was only rumoured in the narrow of unknowing. And every act is innocence. Midsummer children are counting the stars. Our thoughts are stirred by the storm when memories of desolation run so suddenly through her waking mind shaken by the wind until stilled by words spoken. They taste on the tongue like the fruits of paradise. From there they surely fall to earth to lie among the discards of the streets where the wild boys play with danger. And elegant women are always aware that they may need to fly. The artist in his tower paints the scene: how the moon is becalmed by the delicacy of senses in the one he chooses to pursue in azure, indigo and silver. These are the colours working his vision of the world where she walks beneath his tower, beyond his reach. Out of darkness comes the thought, at first no more than possible, that the ocean tide rises according to the moon, restless in her many moods. Then she may feel the influence and so meet the familiar unknown when seen as shadows in the air, when heard as silence in the sound. How she rises sweetly singing without fear of an ending. How easily she may touch the moon. Morning reveals the nearness of days that know every word of her song in the sky where she is walking in pursuit of a world that is hers. The words once heard are borne in mind as far as the ear can hear the tread of feet on earth, on heaven. Geoffrey Heptonstall is the author of a novel, Heaven's Invention. Recent publications include poetry for Nine Muses, Optimum and Poetry Pacific, fiction for Fiction Week, essays for Fiction Southeast and Montreal Review. Based in Cambridge, England, teaching Creative Writing. |