dreaming of caer corwyn
We're standing back and the music isn't taking us
anywhere like it might. That's all right, because it's late
fall, Friday night about sundown, and the cobbles are
filled with people who are electric with boredom. It's
not the scene, we see, or the music. The cello player is
making the instrument wail joyfully like Bach never
imagined, head bowed in homage to some god we could
maybe name. The god of Friday nights, college towns,
wings over the water, the smell in the air. We're still
seeing the boy with the eyes that creep like ivy in our
spare time--reservations about trust, the hope hanging in
the air that someday things will be different. Change
happens in the future; we have no runes to throw.
Holding our hands out to the breeze we dance with each
other and the shadows the sky flashes and then is gone
replaced by a hole with stars in it. We're dancing with
Lachesis but not believing in her. Eight months later
we'll have sticks and be planning on how to decorate
them for Beltane, and the world won't realize just how
much of a change that is. Our lips are clogged with
water and an old tale or two, the storm is boiling just
beyond the horizon and the wind brings the smell of
lightning. Rain will wash hope away and leave the trees
as empty as starlight. We dream of a language in which
we can say anything, finally be understood. That's what
poetry is for. We live in the space between ideas and
ideals, a literary reference excised from truth.
And . . . . . .
1994