Do you need to know I flagellate
or is the smart of grace‑seeking a vanity with solitude its salve?
Does suffering need witness
or does display diminish
the votive motive?
Pride and indulgence
shed dim light for the pilgrim whose reward is arrival.
Ha’pence cast by Nickers of my eyes,
the illusions shattered by those who know not.
To pierce what filtered;
the new scorching shafts sear my sight, and green scars haunt my visions.
Brittle ice, a graceful float yet a mask for cool, still waters.
The stone thrust through to free the chill truth.
Yet not without ripples.
A while then, before a new calm,
and the ice of our former blindness, now shattered, melts
and joins the greater whole, to swell its understanding,
to lap at new shores and turn with new tides.
spins a truthless trance,
needlessly flailing a cynical scythe
to endanger crop and compatriot.
You seek enemy in ally
and find malice to spite meaning.
The corvid choir’s dawnsong
light to ‘lid
Fool’s assayist marks
as the speculator’s panned-for purity
is lost to a plate costume –
and burnished to black.
Now the Thames knows
it can come and tell.
For though you know,
re-telling will not stale
and may be,
can show a-new
something of what seeds
in every utter
for you, enjoys.
for I long for a holding
soft, warm, true.
For, while the Thames tells,
it does not bear back
for whom I care
into my arms.
A thousand sails testify to Grace in Troy
whose gilded gaze bears up the boughs on the balming,
casting shape not shadow here.
As a heart enfolded
to a Love prefigured
in long-held longing looking,
a Word for a Meaning unsought
scrib’d across a Soul,
in the Angel’s healing hand of Truth and Honour –