The Fool and the Mountain

I once stood on a steep hill
watching a fool stumbling his way
s l o w l y
and painfully to the top.

He didn’t
follow the path, but instead
a diversified route through rocks
and trees
and rose bushes.  I thought
him foolish, considering
the smooth simplicity of the path.
For hours I watched him, amazed
by his actions as he rolled in the grass,
dug under stones and such.

At last he stood beside me on the peak, 
smiling.  I questioned him at length
on his trip, stating how pointless
it seemed.  He said, “I helped a young robin
back into its nest;
I watched the sun set in the west,
through a rose bush;
I counted the petals in a daisy-chain,
and cried at the waste;
I found a quartz crystal
that had swallowed a rainbow;
I watched a fieldmouse nursing five children;
I spied on a bud that bust forth as a violet;
I heard the universe speak
through the throat of a swallow.”

And he left me,
standing sad on the hill.

              

The Forest of Shadows

I am pursued through the forest
where there is no colour,
save that of feigned understanding.

Underfoot the rustling
of long-dead rumours
clutch at me like
the slime-laden claws
of some prehistoric
bastard crustacean,
spawned in hatred of change
by a dying mammal
made obsolete by the birth of man.

And the whispers, that were once screams,
that I hear through pounding eardrums,
are still persistent, yet false
as ever.
But I heed them less.

I stumble barefoot and breathless,
through the myriad graveyards
of the Seven Churches: besieged by bells,
garroted by rosaries, choking on the words of men
who would seek to lead, while their
need is to be led:
but they are not.

Dying with every step,
I am beaten, and in frustration
turn
to meet my pursuer;
then weep with futility,
for that dreaded Face
has my own image.