The Blue Bottle
A bottle of blue glass stays beside my bed.
Dark and rippled it is,
like the high Sea on a day tossed by storm.
I hold its small, cool weight within my hand,
my thumb about the whorled surface…..
touch the fractured prism of softened azure fire
that traces upon the pale down of the coverlet.
And the minutes play out,
like the fierce-toothed pike I caught once,
in a deep-green pool of the River…..
the lines of time
into the deep-blue well of dremes.
I think to look up again
(or perhaps it is not so much the looking,
(nor the thinking)
as it is *the*waking),
the bottle rests once more upon the sturdy stand,
twilight fanning gentled bits of colour from its heart….
And I might have wondered
it came there,
were there not two solid feet
patterned criss-cross by fading bands of blue,
and eyes almost as warm-green as the River on that by-gone day
and a soil-roughed hand containing mine.
We do not speak,
as the last colour retreats from the day,
stars pearling the bowl of the sky,
pale-sliced moon tracing trees with His sickle.
We do not speak,
thoughts woven through with silver dark and memory’d silence ….
We do not speak
the bottle of blue
with a moon-dance dark eye.
I hold the bottle
within my hand,
the sound and sight and smell of waves
beneath the ribbon of the sky
filling me as if these were
And my hand opens,
the bottle slipping
upon the floor.
I don’t know what it means,
gathers each broken bit
as if they were his babe
will not look at me
not even when he has done.
And in the morning he whistles with the robin who lives in the thicket
of the garden-bottom.
And Rosie makes tea and seed-cake and hangs the wash (with baby Elle
caught like a remembrance within a corner of her skirt) upon a
And I dreme on the Sun’s lazy, warming fingers, wrapped about faded
remnants of blue.