I shall haunt all these places

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

“I shall haunt all these places”, said he,
“in this great gothic world - I shall haunt them all:
a spectral moth amid blossoms at twilight
imbibing their fragrance beneath the budding stars
after the day has slumbered into deep dreamings,
when comes a stone-grey joyous melancholy,
with air like maiden-breaths expanding into quiet
and innocent peace. I shall wander thus, and rest,
wander and rest, and discover all the secret places;
shall become lost amid the moon-sheen, among
the everlasting mountains of dark-swelling silence
to await the serene and fair dawning of the Sun.”

The Final Movement

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

We gaze through eyes bright with candlelight,  
across moorlands of memory, toward the departed sun 
and into profound depths of shadow-remembrance:
delving, delving - yet those riches are lost to time.

We could not hold forever to the fair visions
which flickered lively upon these walls
in daylight-dreamings, in patterns manifold,
dancing to a symphony now fading away.

Behold we now, from a quiet distance, 
the world turning slowly, wick smouldering, 
wax melting thick on the table, mounding up in silent waves
like the empty heath-hills stretching out beyond sight.

Shadows remain in corners; yet the sun of tomorrow
promises a wide expanse of new-blooming heather,
as now the moon rises fair and bright, the wind serene 
under the stars, under the oaks, under the eaves of the house.

Whispers in the Night

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]

Breath is pale beneath the moon,
blood is warm as afternoon.
Colours blend in salt-sea eyes,
storm clouds halt in silent skies.
The rain is heavy but never falls,
the voice is loud but never calls.
Dreams are vivid but all forgotten,
bright like stars but ill-begotten,
fountains behind a darkened glass.
Memories are kindled, but swiftly pass
like whispers spoken in the night,
like promises with the morning light.
Two faces at the upper window
behold the moors now draped in shadow.
Her breath is pale beneath the moon,
his blood is warm as afternoon.

Lines Composed at Headington Hill, Oxford

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Voices are on the autumn breeze
sifting through the dying leaves
with the sound of distant seas:
“O come with us! O come!

“The light is slanting from the west;

fly to where all things are best –
a dwelling-place of peace and rest.
O come with us! O come!

“Life has reached its endmost stage,
years have bloomed with fullest age,
the reader turns the final page –
O come with us! O come!

“O come with us, the day is ending;
the lights of Sun and Moon are blending;
the wind is strong, the trees are bending –
O come with us! O come!

“We fly away, beyond the sky
to where the Light will never die;
whisper at last a soft ‘good-bye’
O come with us! O come!”

I come with you, I come with you!
I come with you, I come!

Overnight in Coeur d'Alene

The sky is broken; a jeweled night spills out.
The watchful crows departed like shadows
to pursue the dying-coal of daylight
far into the darkening forest-deeps.
Dry wood burns best and brightest,
with less smoke. Our lives are leaves,
poised and pierced by firelight,
shifting and shivering in the wind,
in the sharp unfocus of the season
disturbed by blustery weather.
We sleep in the open air; dreams come strong,
fragrant with cedar and damp earth:
dreams of owls and powdered moths,
of crickets and distant singing-frogs
all along the slumbering river.
The wind is dark in the tallest trees;
the morning will find us here.