It is a
spiritual place… or so we kid ourselves.
We walk our
processional walks
Down isles
of waking grass.
To a blessed
water-alter
Which
allegedly speaks the Truth.
If it does
speak the truth,
Then it does
so by saying nothing.
And silence
can never lie.
Poets past
and poets present
Looked for
truth under sheep shit.
They even
asked the flies
(Which were
budding and swilling
In their
ever-so-small brains)
Where to
find the Truth.
So what
about Meaning?
Poets find
it when they give it.
And they
give it freely
To rotting
flesh and living flower.
But the moor
means nothing.
It doesn’t
speak sweet words -
Since it
doesn't speak at all.
And if it gives
us any meaning,
Then it's the
meaning of its explicit silence
On all those
deep issues.
Yet the
moor's lack of a view
Is that
most-powerful view.
A view born
of something
Which
doesn’t impose its fixed illusions
On a world
without sense.
No comments:
Post a Comment