[The following awe grenade was kindly shared with us by Happy Cow's good friend Simon Drew. When he is not busy staring at goats, Simon can be found singing to hamsters, playing chess with sloths, opening overseas bank accounts on behalf of jaguars and running the online groups English Stuff and H.A.T.S.T.A.N.D. (O.N.). Please click on the 'Like' button to show your appreciation for Simon's spell-binding contribution. Enjoy!]
Lay this head to dawn
not a crumb could be caught by worm
or ant upon the wall
climbing high through valleys tall
the light falls on the pavement
and grains light up like diamonds, vagrant
from the depths of earth
the river rose to fulfill its curse
and the sparkling grasses
lift their limbs to waiting sky
the golden sun embraces
ebony to azure on high
the waves of the sky in summer
the buzz of insects who mount the breeze
and softly through the tunnels
of hidden streams they gently weave
light upon the pavement
a bare foot with its skin embraces
all the faces of these grains
brown, and green and colours untrained
the eye is not deceiving
the light on the retina receiving
in dreams the willows grieving
in daylight dancing with the dust
that frames these licks of sunlight
that brush across the open field
and rush to meet horizons
but though they rush it shall never yield
and floating each vista before the eyes
and drowning in waterfalls of disguise
the sounds leap up and dance together
a rock, a stone, enduring all weather
and sounds they brush against the houses
inside they eat on dinners mounting
on the plates they have been counting
to raise it to a pile high
french fries sunbeams across the sky
and these fingers reach over the precipice
now the sunset's bloody mess
has burst its arteries onto the canvas
and still, on watching, on going movements
the night descends, the stars appearing
and a silver tune unending
in this moment of silent watching
all dreams of skin and concentration
into vessels and other creations
slip like water down the stream
cannot be helded, cannot be dreamed
and in dreams that dreamed that they were dreams
in empty dreams like soda streams
bubbles percolating in the stream
and pop, its gone, this little dream
they flow over rocks into deep crevices
and then are gone, with timeless memory
held by water they never left
a foreign boat which floats adrift
and forgot the shore from which it left
on golden sands, and rocky reefs
and coconuts with messages entwined
into these floating vines
which run across the ocean deep
and one splash of waves against the hull
with that one sound could it be aroused
and fly its sail, and drift still though
knowing it has no where to go
and hands are holding hand in hand
and eyes are meeting in the crowd
the silent whispers are roaring loud
and hearts are falling at their feet
no words in words in words caressing
all of each touch a deep confessing
a longing deep which is forever going
and burns with light, its own light showing
and shadows too, which make the picture
a rivalry uncontended, richer,
the stars can be left, uncollected
and this moment, undisected
to speak of it humanly, like kisses falling
from the sky and down below
to caverns where unending grow
a heart beating, on so slow
an pumps out perfume, undetected
the water through which mermaids swimming
comb their hair and sit there waiting
tonight they'll be to no ships calling
the dream of actuality recalling
a desire for what is neither rising nor falling
in tune with all heavens breathing
through these desires, all but seething
through each mirror the axe is cleaving
don't doubt upon a single word
it all is ever that which was heard
and it all is what which came to be
but left no where, persists steadily
and sense and nonsense are dutifully dancing
a child at its mother glancing
and with her calm, taking steps
brave so brave, when out of tests
and takes each moment as it is
in the playground, under the sand
descending from each image and scent
deep and out to meet again
the ever present waiting sky
watching and not asking why
so far from questions, a silent story
needs no reflection for its glory
for all it sees, it is in turn
the blinding tunneling of a worm
that is made of gold, and jade, and ivory
and has no dreams that it could see
nor dreams to be or not be
though when this this, moves into dreams
the marvellous intensity, extreme
it dreams of words and alterations
magically these incantations
bring life to lifelessness itself
of this, not this, and third untaken bases
from none to one to devastation
neither born nor in annihilation
but to cry one melody
that would silence even the mighty trees
and call down the sky and rivers rising
to crash into a world dividing
and each fingers playing across the mountains
burst forth a million fountains
and then gently again subside
and go, but no where, a fading tide
in that place where neither light nor shadow enter
where not a thing can catch this whiskey
are but dreams of dreams are dreaming
and there is nothing wrong in this seeming.
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