The Stone That Shook The Wind

Poem on theme of Transformation

Lazarus among the tombs, the bloom-bled stables.
Coniferous in his gait, a glass heart
panting like a temple.

From dew-jewelled evergreens, their snared leaves like
the ears of cropped foxes,
he remembers gait thousand faces and
the person he birthed to receive them.

So long before the snoring breeze of Bethany
there rose a pool of eyes, expressions thunderborn
to give the grave his storms.

And now he sights a silk horizon, the clear clouds brewing,
stumbles upon the finest pinecone,
refreshed by the very lightening
that beat his bones ablaze.

Lazarus amid the stars, the green-gold moon.
Exports all heavy thoughts to foreign continents
when before he recalled the past as bulls dream
of the swords that almost killed them.
Now his mind his silver, his spirit thick.

He stoops, alive, to place the pinecone softly
beneath a rock moss-coloured
for strange black sheep to seek,
release the Earth, make heart from stone
and shake the wind.