The Journey

Mischa Zaied and WJ Ray,  Photo by Zohar Zaied
Misha Zaied and WJ Ray
Photo by Zohar Zaied

Song of the Road At Sixty

In the dream the ladies and gentlemen had dressed and attended
Their English light-opera to hear and see and be seen there
And while they were away the lower rooms of the manor
That cleaved within the oaken Eastern hills
Began to burn without a sound

At first I felt no danger because my child lay down
Near an opening in the floor watching the water cascade
And mix in its brother element to make a cloud
But as we left and ran the leafy hollow glowed
And soon thick timbers stood rebecoming an ancient frame

As all returned, everyone in a laughing crowd
For their Port and claret cakes and cigars
They described an amphitheater across the stubbled ground
Gaily chaired watching from the West hayfield
Still hypnotized to opera plot and sound

Our cottage, spared because so far away
Teemed with Victorian children running
But next morning I grew suddenly younger
As the wrecking wagon ponderously backed
Then rolled at increasing speed downhill our way,

The wrecker's daughter smashing windows ahead
Though it all looked new somehow in my eyes now
Then I laid my own upon cushions in the wagon lengthwise
And she asked Father are they going to ask to share our house
I lowered another figure, unfamiliar, myself when small

We lay our generations down in the wheeled wagon
Comforted in our mystery clothes of death, and I said
No my dear one, leaving we leave them a sign
And we'll go on as we are, forgetting for a time
The house of breath whose source is divine

In the late light along the open road I smashed an acorn
Freeing the crows to signal and circle to eat
Or another animal or the earth will eat it
Dream join me now to wasp and river, lavender and bee
Embraced by, embracing, paths of becoming I cannot see

WJ Ray
November 2004

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