A Berry

by Dave


A red line born of muck in kiln fire;
All crack and crumb, length of broken
worn out time.
Ivy! Reefed and loose
but tall.
A secret held.A dream of power and coin that sent me here.A ghost of ancient oak that stands askew.
Unyielding guard of hidden history
and of dark secrets whispered to the wind.

An hour of tug and tussling ensues.
city Hands
torn on a store of benign neglect
that runs along a sharp and shattered edge.

Old wraiths of masonry and mortar sting
and bloody skin gone soft from
easy living.

To reveal what?
A wilderness of weed
that had once held shape and hope and dreams
I have seen
in outline
the forgotten form.

Phantoms hidden under brush and seeded ash,
sullen and dark against October’s frowning face.

A garden now on plan and
graph paper.
and the  heart of three washed sepia
Beautiful but lacking any real detail.
Memory only of another time

that lives on
in a broke
and aging mind.

To be reclaimed, this dream of one ancient.
Paying for a tune, deaf ears will never hear

Then I see, in singular perfection,
a surviving fancy
or some hybrid.

But a whip of bramble only,
one berry,

hanging high, backlit by washed out Autumn sky.

A jewel inset with heart of lustrous black,
a promise of purple in refracted light.
A perfect berry
and all that such holds.

No bloom of grey or mould but firm and bold
a shining  face
full of October sun.

Machines will come on Monday morning
to work
to a plan
shape again.

To re-form this vision of a memory.

I have faith at last because I have seen.
Beauty lives
in this dream, here already
without the hand of men.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

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