They leave a track across time,
the sea-salt souls – faint
& delicate as painted
tracery of April birch-limb
shoots under a pale blue sky;
massive as meteoric
stone flung from the thick
of heaven (dark as a raven eye).
Unreadable profundum – yet
a trace of what they loved
remains (as in an alcove
names are tapped in cloudy granite
for a terse echo of foregone delight).
Then centripetal gravity
sheds all formality
& mutters from the depth of night
the soul’s original, L-mast
uprightness – earliness;
birchland of quietness,
in boreal Aurora dressed.
Blackstone & Williams, Edward Coke...
such men of merciful Law
& lawful Mercy... & I saw
the matrix of your Liberty – who spoke
with spokes of fire upon her brow.
Cana, in Galilee...
primeval Spring, welling forever now.