Genres:Love, Fear, Relationships, Promises, Hope, Loss, Astral

Astral Moments
Inspired by ‘Astral Weeks’ by Van Morrison
by Kirstin Maguire

The bridges of Amsterdam shine in Spring,
Down river, wild current churning wide.
Twitching free, a young man slips in,
Along crooked warehouse and factory line.
Trips between buildings, viaduct drift,
Swift dip of huge river’s golden dreams.
Steam engine rolling, thunderous roaring,
Steelworks of old working-life’s gleam.

Backstreet ditches,
Many we stumbled,
Many a night and many a sight.
Disappear from view,
Hide and then stop,
Many a night and many a sight.

Daylight cracks paving,
Deep river shining.
Many a light and many a sight.
Sunlight ripples,
Twinkling shimmer,
Many a light and many a sight.

She eyes him from dank riverbank,
She stirs, she heaves, she hurls.
Drags him under arms to reeds’ banks,
She strokes, he wakes, she soothes.

Zealous fingers comb wet hair,
Promise it will all be alright.
To lay him down in silence easy,
Dreaming all that wandering night.

He gulps new breath of refreshed world,
Silent kissed eyes open wide.
Translucent outline, rise and unfurls,
And views himself, he’s his own guide.

A gleam on the breeze, a trick, a flicker,
A glow in the air, a spark, a heartbeat.
With renewed view and refreshed spirit.
Reborn eyes with new insight.

Sun setting radiant wonder,
Leaping waves; wild ocean roar,
Crests are choppy,
Gathering wildly,
Lapping softly,
On quiet breeze.

Each tide finds its shore.
As far as eye sees,
As far as mind winds,
To horizon.

Blends, fades and folds,
Transient ascending,
As translucent-self pictures self.
Many depths plundered,
Rich skies greet pale seas.
Textures singing and sweeping free,
Grit in feet, sand creeping toes,
Questioning look on forlorn face.

Braving red skies sunset’s blaze,
Lines each texture and every crease.
Colour fade and in-betweens,
Hands wrapping tightly behind back.
Translucent vision pushes the raft
Of old oak door mounting vast waves.
Wheels way and venture revolution,
Meet sea, eclipse, find ultimate source.

In twitching dark corridor
Of bitter cold night,
Dim lights flicker along their hallway.
Pots and pans rattling,
Behind closed doors.
Raised voices spatting,
Behind closed doors.

Forcing door he tumbles in,
Tattered suit dusted
From door’s crashing.
Arm stands to attention
Behind sunken back.
Stray flowers he clutches;
Fine bastions.
The hopeful picking and
Desperate plucking,
Wilting and fragile,
Stalks sweaty palm.

There she stands;
Startled, bemused.
His breath smells of liquor
As he awkwardly shuffles
From one foot to other,
From moment to moment.
Pledges and promises
Of fine intentions.

Scratchy ‘Black Betty’ emanates vinyl,
She examines his picture hanging above.
Tracing Leadbelly,
Enshrined in gold frame,
His face so alive
He could come back to life.
She stands and watches,
In quiet confiding,
Seeks wisdom in pain
Of those old blues tales.

Winter sun streaming,
Old sash window.
Lights floor under foot,
Etches warmth on her face.
Some rare femininity
Striking her rags,
Embellishing them with
Raw beauty of
Pure golden seams,
Tinted moonstruck beams.

Long linear living room of deliberations,
Is stage to some kind of play boasting
Aristotlean Values of time and space,
As he’s struck with fear of her dalliances.
He envisions her showing out a guest,
Whispers in hallway,
Smiling strutting.
Landscapes of art all down the corridor.
Lonely image he’s imagining.

As she stands before translucent him,
Stream of sunlight strikingly free.
Not subject to window’s passage but free,
Free; its life all-consuming,
Tinting her hair, and cheek and eyes,
Shining as her glistening speech,
And they smile, and standing closer,
In mind’s fair painting of imaginings.

Small boy strolling,
By her side.
Side-parted softness,
His red shoes tap.
‘Make sure he has clean clothes to wear.
Will you see to it that he has clean clothes.’

Brave crossing room,
He’s seeking comfort.
Along fragile wall,
Designated as kitchen.
His fingers explore
Wood’s grain and knots.
Staggers at side,
As she stands centre stage,
Centre stage and further away.

Sweet memory recalls
Bridges and viaducts
Of quiet kissed eyes and life’s renewal.
He imagines them, somehow younger.
No lines of worry on bitter faces,
No signs of tiredness’ deep traces
No sign of etches of hidden regret.
Playing and laughing, holding hands,
In meadow of sun’s play
All the long day.

In living room, the sun is setting,
Shadows her face, at centre stage.
Centre Stage and further away,
As he lurches worktop, shoulder dips.
Soon twilight will arrive and night will drift in,
Leaving only distance and sweet memory.

* * * * *

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