#poem #poetry #amwriting divine comedy - canto 4

canto 4

at last we reach a stand of trees
the air within is warm and free
bees flit round the honeysuckle

we sit upon a log of elm
when a second revelation comes
for suddenly I realise
that my daughter is a woman
and been since we met
and I have become a timeless foil
for in this realm she is my guide
not the baby born to death
on which my guilt full fat has fed
it is this gift a parent needs
to see their flesh full grown

then the flying working bees
transform in flashes before me
into the relatives that I love
to stand before me in a row

there is my gran smiling sweet
my father happy
as when on a saturday
drinking whiskey at the bar
beside him his stern father
and my nan
as bees convert to uncles and aunts
and all hold out
plates of food

the music of that place
changes to a banquet tune
the log upon which we rest
grows legs and chairs
and table shape

as we dance and laugh and sing
beyond the trees falls the night
and we within that fey glade
revel in our company

but reeling round and through the leaves
I notice briefly a view
more sterile than this place of cheer
of the world I left behind
it scuttle shifts
and tugs me back

now I question 'am I dead'

this death is not as I imagined
it more resembles those visions
that as a child I constructed
to reconcile those fears and dreads
of being mattered
in optimism

for this mirth
this taste if happy hours
beneath branching verdant bowers
full contradicts in delight
that black death darkness
told to us

for here is joy
without regret
in which we spirits prance
unapologetic rite
our souls entwine in caress
as when in life in idle glance
when fed on love
embrace the pride that swells
of sharing that divine gift

'divine divine divine' sigh I
and look up to the gorgeous sky
threefold of sun
I wish for rain
to wash my soul in ecstasy 

The Blue Book