An Inland Journey cont'd [narrative poem]

PART FOUR: LATE BEYOND MATINS

X.

Here time is no tyrant, with nothing save summer
      blithe breeze through the leaves waffles on
some flute-song wafts pliant? ah pity, no drummer
      and the hour arrives always at dawn

yes boughs rife and laden, lithe bending for burden
      where fruit droops as fabled for true
within heady aroma hides hearty love’s pardon
      where baubles gleam limpid for dew

on an isle so reclusive, white shores clad in sea-spray
      stray droplets play globes of fine pearls!
where the birds hint of peacock, of turtle and osprey
      what peach mocks the cheeks of shy girls?

may an Ancient who husbands an orchard sequestered
      harken wisps or heed wafts of a world
ever distantly longing? Old man! you're unpestered
      you who seldom see sails unfurled

XI.

My dream was half-wakeful, my waking half-slumber
      the heat of wide daylight soon dwindling
what league of whose sojourn? I’d lost track of number
      west dusk sembled embers ‘neath kindling

an anchorite somewhere is attending his fire
      a guest sitting somewhere is listening
an island stowed somewhere, an comic or dire?
      dim fruit lost in dawn-light faint glistening

were you scaling a hillside or reaching an Abbey?
      a tap on the door finds reply
were you weaving an annal, all earnest and gabby?
      right flummoxed and strange is my sigh

we were glimpsing the trove of night stars dappling darkness
      is glinting on fruit so obscure?
where a flute-song lurks lonesome, no ear turns to hark this
      an orchard unseen remains pure

XII.

I camp on the deck of a ship, or an Abbey
      the crash of a wave inkles sea-spray
it’s late beyond matins, there’s light in the lobby
      the bird that I glimpse seems an osprey

The monk hands a cup, fragrant tea in its steam
      I awaken, perchance having slumbered
mid-day shall we sup? and is living sheer dream?
      what keeps us obscurely encumbered?

I’m a'raising the cup and a’tasting the brine
      do I traipse up the shore with its sand?
I’m below in the cellar surveying old wine
      in a sequel pell-mell and unplanned

I’m espying my semblance, an oaf with his trove
      but what isle would deep silence contain?
if my tongue, whilom dumbstruck, toured words: what is love?
      Eftsoons the lone flute-song again




some notes

turtle: turtledove
fine: (i) tiny, (ii) of excellent quality
the crash of a wave inkles sea-spray: ...bestows an inkling of sea-spray