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Song for Ancient Days
Darkness falls.
Speak to me, my love,
across the stillness of a pensive night.
I wait to hear the stars
call, from the past,
a mystery of grief, not yet resolved;
nor understood,
but carried through the void,
a silent paean.
I am torn;
never whole, my heart
has, ever, wandered frontiers of night's dream,
to seek the part it lost,
and, ever, sought,
since hours when mourning eyes grew dark, with pain.
Its deeper fear,
to enter, once again,
Dante's despair.
Must we sleep,
hidden, beneath stars,
that know no boundaries, and see us joined?
Must wounded hands not feel
the flowing blood,
that is our guarantee, we will not break –
though fated, yet,
to stand, alone, on shores,
and unfulfilled?
This, my vow;
with my hands, outstretched,
in watching tears, deep hushed, across the sky:
this life, as one too far,
will be the end
of endless searching for a home, long loved;
our hearts, as one,
will join, to claim their due,
and live, again.
© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024
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Firewalker
Stars,
tell me of the torture of the night;
of how, beyond perception, before time,
a crucible of violent flame was lit,
that gave you life,
ignited holy fire.
Speak,
of being cast, lonely, to the void;
how, in a greater mind, you swung through space,
a thurible of incence, smoking charms
across the sky,
for beauty's sake, alone.
Sing,
incantations of strange alchemy;
how you became the forging furnace blaze,
through endless deaths, the anvil of Time's craft,
to build vast worlds,
bring light to living eyes.
Be,
to me – to all, glad to suffer love –
a kiln, to burn this clay to rich-fired glaze;
that all, who see the jewels of your hands,
may honour home,
and know life's greater fire.
© Simon J Ashcroft, 2024
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