Father of Waters! I know you well. In the land of a thousand green lakes, on top of shining”Haupteur de terre” – there I met the Maiden of the Rock Grove.
I jumped small stone streams
in teakettle blue – life source,
I begged my birch boat –
what about today –
easily it floated south,
He recalled all this as he stood there; it was November Blue on King Street, the crowds of the most elegant moved freely. That was in the time before Brighton’s Children had gone –
praised green blocks, south falls
pearls, dawn’s birdsong, weeping shades
sparkle in the stream
the song drifts downward
covers memory pours out
a sad refrain still.
There were many entertainment stars to be seen; all who were famous for being part of stage spectacles – tales of adventure & magic in far off lands – and, although it was not much fun, he had attended their illusions in footlights . People went walking on the roof of the Sky Aquarium back then after seeing the performances – before going below for a late night dinner.
Pier at night glitters,
above white diamonds – paddle
prayers for her return
owl flight clips night clouds
shadows drift down mountainside –
“La Fille de Madame Angot” was the most popular choice of the street band. He absentmindedly stopped at a flower shop and bought a turquoise rose for his buttonhole. Mr. W. C. Earth, his slightly tilted hat on one side, turned over a tortoiseshell stick that he had developed by performing a baroque star-test Moebius ritual equation . Looking inwardly, he calls her up.
She wears with pride the clouds of the misty soul.
There was music accompanied by a delicate flower,
petals of ivory,
wings of lavender measurement.
Gold is insufficient –
Crown of rejection, or the colour of the light ?
The Tiger-hammer Forest dance –
the emerald butterfly
slowly floating in the air,
as the red – pentagon freezes
before his eyes.
The spell is broken.
The Musicians of The Griffin Jewellery Box begin to play.
The last night passed idle in front of meadows where wild rice is aged and the white birch reflect the bank, while in the tree branches rare silver bass players make merry music for the sisters of summer fields – and on high, launched pyramidal cones forming shadows. The Rock Groves watched on.
This is a Faerie Tale from Broken Folklore – a fragmented memory unsure of time & place.