She stood
between the sun and I, A pillar of the April sky, With gaze grown narrow on the East From aiming arrows at the Beast — As thick as river reeds, they fly;
Fly, like the down of drifting seed, The snowy pearls that rift and bleed Against that everlasting strength. No terror of its height and length Dilutes the blue of eyes that feed
The living voice we share in thought, And all the dead whose grace is caught In vernal splendor, where they sing Of skies that herald storm or spring And hearts that form a single knot.
Within that face, forever dear, I saw the blue of faith appear In turmoil, like two fading wicks Above her silver crucifix; They flickered up as I drew near:
“This is the sacrificial day We look for, and you must not stray To find the truth we raise at Mass Enshrined upon the withered grass — No priest will suffer your delay.”
I wondered how a priest could shield My senses from the burning field Whose rosy fire met the sun, Surged like the dawn, and made them one. Red blades of spring whose ardor healed
The wrack of winter — then it came: An angry star with track of flame Fell screaming in deliberate flight, And set another field alight. Half-blind, I cried, “Who is to blame
For burning us?” “We do not know. My answer is that you must go To service, and give something back; Behold your mother, veiled in black. Come here, and we will dress you so —”
I lost her voice — a second shell Sent shrieks above the chapel bell, And, desperate for a healing sign, I ran to look for stronger wine Within the wooded citadel:
Far from the sound of crackling fire, The wrack of winter, and desire; Over the hills to find my way Through pastures where the flaxen hay Was sown with rubble and barbed wire.
Where morning shone, the ridge was crowned With melting snow that lingered round The maple trees in ruby bud — Red-veiled, as if a mist of blood Had drifted from the winter ground.
The sunlight leaping in my veins Leapt high along the wooded lanes Whose oak and birch trees, half asleep, Held all the secrets faith could keep From fatal cold. And when it rains,
No garden grove or shaded lawn Holds shining maidens of the dawn Like those that trembled, angel-white As wafers cast from Heaven to light The forest floor. As quickly gone
As robins’ winter unity, So that the singing pair can be; The skipping flocks, where bloodroot weaves A track below the golden leaves Lent motion to the tapestry
Of autumn thoughts. Through stands of birch, The crimson guardsmen made their search With eager notes, intent to find A harvest of a dearer kind Than sleepy moths. We shared one church,
And one communion, for the dead; I chased, or else the robins led Where wheels of petals, reaching up, Combined the wafer and the cup Of morning, so that all were fed.
Within the grove, great piers of oak Were bright with silver tears that spoke Of storms that bless the warming year When nesting robins reappear. Deserted by the feathered folk,
I knelt upon the leafy mould, Indifferent to its damp and cold, And asked the herb: “What are your stars — An Easter blossom ruled by Mars? Bright poppies blaze in red and gold,
“But covet midnight at the core; You hold the day like precious ore, And rubric that makes wisdom rich;
Twelve nights from now, we greet the Witch; Twelve petals for a troubadour
“To scatter. Now, on Father’s knife, You stem releases scarlet life For writing verses in the wild; You truly are the War-King’s child Made manifest, white star of strife!”
I heard a sound. Some treasure-trove Had drawn the robins down the grove To drape the ground with druids’ pall Upon a mound of oaken fall. I wondered if love’s madness drove
The birds to scratch for acorn-mast Like lean spring bears — a strange repast For portage to their future brood — Unless they gleaned a corpse for food. What clever birds. I walked, aghast,
To see what might be lying there; My rapid breathing drew pure air, And if I could trust heart and breath, My steps had found one sweet in death. The robins worked with tender care
Around this soul’s eternal sleep, Until, through leaves no longer deep, I saw black cloth, and understood Whose child was dreaming in the wood, What harvestman the birds would reap.
Grave caution warned, “The world’s at war!” And yet I knelt beside him, for Calm courage is the grace that brings New honor to the race of kings. Could either love or faith restore
Life’s roses to that pale blond skin? “Awake, young man of porcelain! But with the chaste kiss of a blade, For in this sign are heroes made Our strength, when promised lives begin.”
And when the metal pressed his heart, He leapt up, and we sprang apart; Then fell together, pace by pace, As if the eyes that scanned my face Were steel-blue magnets, like the dart
That drew his gaze towards my glove: Spring sky caught in the mirror of The razor-shafted blade of steel, Still crimson with the bloodroot’s seal. No sign of either hate or love
Made windows through his downcast eyes To chambers where intention lies: Soft gentians open to the bee, They said: “This grove belongs to me, And closes on a dearer prize.”
He watched, but did not say a word To break the silence — like a bird Who waits to find a clearer note, And brushed the oak leaves from his coat. Yet more than forest murmurs stirred,
For war finds thos who stand aloof: Red fire thatched the chapel roof, And from the vale, there came a shout As souls in flames came running out. “Look there,” I said. “What better proof
“That we should wear black mourning-dress? They target those who now confess Beneath a strange Good Friday spell: They seek redemption, and find Hell.” At last, he spoke: “Some fires bless.
“But was this evil truly meant? Perhaps it was an accident. That knife is mine. I know the Rune Your hand conceals. I had it hewn In case I woke and found it lent
“Or stolen from me.” “Say it, then.” He spoke a word unknown to men, And voices blending rhyme and rant In martial time, began to chant Beyond the sun. I looked again;
The handle held the Rune he’d said. I brushed leaves from his golden head As memory fed my terror, shook My senses — even as I took His hand, and cried, “Then you are dead!”
“We breathe as one. Your kin seem fair. They knew they could not keep you there. The good seek truth, that all might hear, But to the wicked, truth is fear: A stronghold that they cannot share.
“The dead youth sing, as with one will, Sustaining what no blade could kill: An endless heartbeat, four then four, That opens sense, but locks the door To all but those who hear it still.
“I swear it now: Our truth is true. How did we sing, and how shall you? But tell me now: What blood appears
On your half of the garden shears — Some deadly flower’s fatal dew?”
“This is the blood of innocence, The bloodroot’s flowing lives condense Upon this blade — each one of them, For many flowers share one stem Beneath the ground. The best defense —“
And then it was my turn to scream: “The hex! The hex! This is no dream!” The seal of Mephistopheles On steel, shot down and rent the trees, And plowed the soil, and made it steam.
He said: “The foe we now engage Sees unity that stokes his rage; Moreso, because the hallowed sound Of chanting brought this dead to ground. And when they see that we can wage
“Defensive war to break their curse, They’ll only send us something worse. Their plan will take a dozen nights, And so begins the fight of fights, Here in the hills. It’s not perverse
To long for their unholy shriek When fire strikes the highest peak And splits it open — wait and see Their shock at who and what breaks free! Might we walk through the grove, and seek
A place to watch?” I said through tears: “It’s been my hiding place for years. The woodland folk won’t bar their doors. But first, take back this knife of yours: A compass for the heart that steers
“A course through lives no longer caught; One blade to cut the Devil’s knot; One chain of hearts, one voice in sleep;
One strength, one choice, and faith to keep A cleansing light on those we fought.
“Is this our temple? Tell me why The death-song does not terrify? No other grave beneath the sky; No other runic spell to try;
No citadel, save you and I.”
© 2013 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way without written permission from the author. |