I've just been riffling through a few old working manuscripts and stumbled upon this one written sometime between 1969 and 1971.
THE POET
That is, if I dare say, my destiny. To grasp
and to expand, each feeling moment. Eternity
not mere renewal. Fearing the used-words
of my thought. My destiny. Are the words mine
to use, is any word, a property. I speak
in fear of loosely spoken
words. My destiny!
***********
Today and alone, I return. To what –
all has changed and still I know it is.
My returning. Home and the word
And the thought of the word. Home, and the skies
are open, and a song
of welcome pounds through my veins. Home,
and my eyes can see the song.
Today. And no more alone. I return.
***************
And night conceals. Not even a whisper is heard.
So silently another dawn – and the fields,
the fields open as if to swallow me. I sit
and remember
(before the night/ another today)
a home. A destiny.
Alive. A sound. A shattering.
A whisper of you
from you for me. All is alive
with sound. The yawning trees, the birds
burst into song – the trees and images
of you. The blossoming and songs.
Songs in my mind and you
beside me. A song. A touch of you
on me; I feel
that you need me (not only I need you)
a sound, a touch – transforming words into
a destiny.
Malcolm Evison
