FROZEN CATTLE CORN IN THE EXHAUSTED FIELDS

FROZEN CATTLE CORN IN THE EXHAUSTED FIELDS

Frozen cattle corn in the exhausted fields.

Scratching of blunt nibs on dry paper.

Cold wind.

Bitter muse.

Ice on the inkwells.

A white eclipse of the new moon.

Wild geese rise

through timeless hierarchies of chaos.

The ashes of an unseen fire

that consumes without burning its dead.

Sky burials trying to find their wings.

Past the listless whips of the willows

through the abandoned iron gate

whose enlightenment was to stay open

I cross the precarious bridge

knowing there’s not another side

to the one I’m on.

The boards crack and groan.

I’m walking on a grave.

I stare down into the black night creek,

the sole companion of its flowing.

It’s clearing its throat of dead waterlilies

like the ageless pain of old loveletters

so it can sing again

without knowing who for.

Up through the dark pagodas

of the monkish cedars

to the top of the fox wary hill

to look out and away into space,

my eyes two fish swimming

through the silent infinities

of my own mindstream,

I look up humbled by recognition

but the stars have forgotten my name.

The small nebula of my breath

on the inanimate air

breaks into more intimate

constellations of light

and the moon glows on my ghost

as if it were remembering

from a great distance

when I was last alive.

PATRICK WHITE