For BasilWoodall


Journey too long across the weaving mirages,

Each foot placed by light of star,

Silken in its warming glance,

Mirrored in its path, its advancement;

Rocket-shot sails sleekly with a trail

Of burning fire, ice yellow in a fading

Atmosphere, breathing the stardust surrounding

Like there is no more oxygen to take form.

This is Aldebaran, master of the beaten track,

Watcher of broken bones re-mended.

He steers his Celtic passengers-

He provokes their ribbon-passage, slow march

Into the ripples of his gaze,

Where an echo of his silence grows in time.

Find yourself past the journey

Into the present banks, desert deserted,

Where the marbled cream and fire blood

In his eye can perceive

Every murmur of your past

Strung in the heritage of music’s ear.

Play, bard, to feed his thunder cloud,

The pipe to refute the wind that buffs

Every wearied body to its enlightenment

Down, kissing the finish;

Here the settler’s

Settlement places, held there with resolve

That painted on his writhing lips,

A smile, a roar to fight a thousand

Traveller’s unbroken ears.

In that pulsar shone the truth,

Strong in tangent, broad in spectrum.

Far gone, Aldebaran Over All,

Runner of the ice-tipped seas,

Came to rest in spirit with the fluidity

Of the stratosphere’s own cool touch,

Burning heart to ice- and ice to star’s

Patterned flame of tendrilled body,

Split with the distances he bears,

Throbbing forever

With the invisible hand of the guide.

The End

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