Beacon is a world of possibilites. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, which means that Beacon is also a world of impossibilities. Exploring the impossible is as fascinating as exploring the possible.
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i stood in shelter by the mossy wall
and underneath a wet stone arch
whose vaulted blackness glistened damp
as raindrops hit the tesselated stones without,
and where my presence was concealed
but for a rhythmic flaring red
whose cyclic glowing pulsed in time
with slow drawn breaths,
and pallid trail of smoke that curled away
into the gloomy shadows high above.concentric circles rippling out upon the stones
were testament to all the thousand deaths
of tear-shaped raindrops levelled in their silent fall,
their puddled liquid graves reflecting fractured lights,
the rainswept stretch of portlight street,
a promenade that once held all the radiant warmth
of soft held memories and sharp edged images
of brief encounter and electric touch.i flicked,
a crimson parabolic curve
traversed the dismal, sodden air,
the spark to land and flare,
then fade, a burnt out stub
adrift upon the rainwashed stones.i turned around and went inside.
by chance i saw a photograph,
a snapshot from an independent hand,
from one who had no interest in you
except that you were there within the frame,
a subject uninvolved and unattached
to any there who made the elements
within this photographic composition.how then did they know to focus on
the highlights of your eyes
that long have captivated mine?
how could they know to capture that
faint enigmatic twist of lip
in flash-lit highlight,
gleaming lips in latent sensuality
whose yielding softness i had yet to taste
but not for want of fretful thought?but now i have this piece of you
a replica that has no match for sweet reality
but just the same permits a hopeful me
to hold the thought of you within my hand,
to think the spell within your paper-prisoned gaze
might one day mirror mine in life.
In younger days I used to travel daily on a bus along a winding coastal road, guarded one side by the hills that sloped up softly to their heights but which halfway hemmed the road in sharp against the sea that churned against shattered hissing rocks.
The trip was mostly spent in the sleepy discomfort that only a bus can deliver, head bumping against the seaward facing window and vaguely aching from the fume-filled racket of the diesel as the bus wound up and down through its gears.
There was one point along the way, just where the road cut windingly through a rocky headland arching high above the sea, that always snapped my eyes open in anticipatory fascination and where I sat upright upon the seat. For at this point the road descended downward, turning, curving round through wet and fractured rocks, damp from springs, where plants grew bravely in the fissures, clinging grimly to the rocky face.
And just before the road dropped down onto the coastal plain there was a sudden gap onto the seaward side where the bus seemed to hang in space as it crawled along, and where the vista opened out to reveal the the white-streaked sluice of tumbling green waves which thundered on the rocks so far below. Rocky monoliths stood stalwart and foam-swept in the sea, framed by the jagged edges of the cutting through which we travelled. The water thrust itself angrily into sandy fissures, white fingers in between the tesselated rusty coloured outcrops, but at the foot of the cliff, verdant trees stood oblivious to the briney cascade, standing tall, immune to the chaos.
Here, within the space of a handful of heartbeats, was a scene of gasping beauty, a snapshot of the peace and turbulence of life, juxtaposed in natural paradox. Every time the bus reached this point I was awake, alert, anxious not to miss a moment of this view, desperate to capture all its elements so that I could replay it later, enjoy it later, and let it feed an undefinable hunger it seemed to arouse.
Now, so many years later, I still recall the delight that those few moments each day afforded me. And now, curiously, I find that same elusive, ephemeral and undefined delight each time I look at you. Why is that? Common to each vision is its unattainability, its transience. I can never hold either the same way I can a pebble picked off a beach, but I do know of the pleasure they add to existence.
i do not understand . . .
each time i dared look up
i caught your eyes in dark regard,
so wide, intense,
so . . .
grey,
or green,
or blue . . .
for all my searching looks
i still can't bring to mind their hue.
upon the glass-damp table top
you shuffled coins in circles wet,
your fingertips as light as spider feet,
so close they spun to mine . . .
a claim of territory
or a tacit statement of a hidden wish
known only by your body's psychomotor reflex?
i remember what i'd said to you before
in words that held no aspirations back;
that spoke of you and who you are
and all the things that caused my pulse to race,
so you know well what lurks
behind my downward gaze,
no false illusion can you hold . . .
i do not understand . . .
why you are here,
why you still tender invitations
to these assignations undisclosed.
for likewise i knew well your stated view,
of how you wished to keep unbroached the wall
that kept the borders of our lives in place,
and though i yearned to bridge the heartbeat gap
so narrowly defined between the two of us
i stayed my hand which tried to edge across to yours.
instead i spun my stubbie on its base
and picked, distracted, on the label there
to tear off little shredded paper strips
that fell upon the table in a pile
that soaked up condensation residue
just like confetti in the rain
i do not understand . . .
when, knowing all of this,
we still persist in placing there in front of us
a chalice gleaming gold in its allure
whose fiery liquid none of us will sip the first
i thought upon the irony
of two convergent souls
who both, through stands of principle,
forsake the opportunity
that sits before their eyes
to turn away, the questions unresolved,
the loss as sharp as ice.
last updated by mikko; 13 November, 2001