Forever

A supernova is forever

Not in duration

But in light.

With a modern ship

One can match pace therewith

And watch the grand explosion

Play out across the stars

Forever, frozen in time.

But in truth

this can only last so long;

Eventually one must turn back

For fear of death

Or isolation

Or going astray

And when one returns

To that nova’s spot

There is left nought
But golden dust

The Wonders Of My Hand

There is one time I remember
More than any of the others
When one of the old folk came up to me
Dressed in a cloak numbering in years more
Than these eyes of mine have ever seen
“Have you been to that planet there?” he asked me
And pointed on the viewscreen, a short distance away
A small mark on the glass, a mere speck of dust
Against the galactic wall that lay behind.
He took my arm and pulled me closer to that screen
And made me stare long and hard into the little dot
And he described it with intense passion
Talking of waters blue, skies blue, eyes blue
Of forests green, grass green, skin green
Of blood red
Of rubble grey
There stands an ancient statue, he told me
A woman dressed in ancient robes
An ancient light in her hand
And her ancient skin rusted away

Memory

Earth, Museum World

Her first trip alone

(two stops, a transfer at Barnard's Star).
She wants to the see the wildland

Abandoned long ago

And hikes in long hauls (weeks at a time)
Across country ancient and hills rough.

The rubble caught her eye when in the wastes
Distracted her from the sky.

They’re scattered stones
All weathered and covered in moss

And when she put her hand to feel one

To touch its smooth side

It sank away 

And lost itself in the mud.

The Field

Green grass on hills rolling

(demarking valleys that lie between)
A lone wanderer tracks a tattered trail

Two boots on mud (shoots breaking through

only to be beaten down)

The map is detailed, complex

Ordnance survey of a scattered scape

But it does not contain what she sees now

Peaking through the woods

Mere steps away (reaching towards the sky)

It grasps at the heavens and attains but

A quick shattered snap as she shoots it bright

Recording the memory
Then moving away.

The Shrine

Wood falls on grass ground

Axe swings and saw chops

One walks through alone

A bucket and brush in hand

And upon each tree,

Red marks (the angel of death shan’t spare thee).

He reaches a clearing

Grass over there grown

And flowers of a myriad

Sprouting around

Guiding the eye to the central piece

A tower of stone

Standing eye to eye.

A girl stands now before that tower bold

Bearing the gifts of her village (flowers, cheese)

An offering to the gods who put it there

The tower is taller than her (though not for long)
Marred by marks and symbols
Paint and carving

Holy

Forest Critter

From branch to branch,

Tree to tree

The critter leaps and crawls

Its eyes quick and searching,

Searching for an acorn among the leaves

To bring and bury home.

In the sky a brilliant blue

And the star’s light on the critter shines

Lighting the way.

But nothing can stop the fall.

A quick slip

But soft needles keep it safe

And provide a bed beneath.

It lies startled and dazed and then looks

up at the sight before it.

A tree of stone, its rings misshapen

As if piled one atop the other.

The critter gathers itself up 

And runs up the nearest

Up and up to branches high

To continue its search

Last Breath

Fists upon a bed of soft grass;

Fell the tears of heaven hateful;

In cries of anguish and the flashing bright

(trees trembling at the fate of their smoten fellows)

A hunter crouched, bright blade drawn out

And with it cut and incised - precise.

Stomach out first (leaving blood upon the ground

staining green with red as fast as tears

could wash it thereoff again) then intestines

Kidneys, liver, the lot.

A spike through the heart mirrors the disgust

That spits on the ground

As the ever Noble hunter roasts his flesh

Upon a fire he made (a better taste keeps away the devil’s hand.)

Later to ember out in anger colder still

Wrath shaking those trembling trees

Leaving the ground stolen of colour

And the hunter breathing out his soul.

Inside his meal he finds a makeshift home

Its skin now his,

Its blood his covers.

He sees the trees and joins along

Then hides his face deep in his host’s hide

(Imagining the gods raging) and tries to speak

(yet his name into the frost fades away).