The
seminary of the sown seed,
Rounded
and smoothed by the river of wind
And
pacing with a soundless footfall
Upon
the ground surrounding age,
Is
womb and urn and temple between,
Till
breath is bled and raked across its grave.
The
seminary of the sown seed,
Sequestered
from the spiralled arc of growth,
Ripe
with innocence to trust in truth
At
the pin-point of a hurricane’s eye:
That
woo of youth that rises behind
The
solace that sings from the centred void.
The
seminary of the sown seed
Ages
not in years, matures by ages,
Until
the circling sea coughs up its ghosts
And
sets them spinning on a sunless shore;
Their
saviour sought has been burned in lament,
The
print of his foot sunk deep in descent.
The
seminary of the sown seed,
That
lies not like the stark white flesh
And
unblinking eye encompassed by sleep,
Waits
at rest on the crest of the world’s curve;
There
the slumbering season threatens a change,
And,
returning its name, falls to decay.
The
seminary of the sown seed
Steers
the stars to their final alignment;
Whose
sentence yet remains unpassed
Between
the air-shaped night and day
And
land-locked hours where soon the hand
That
ticked my birth shall tock a timeless death.
