Rain from the north, about trees mist is lifting. We have come here for a short space as though blown by some reckoning havoc. At first it was unconvincing, that grey, ineluctable vapor, those droplets, sparse & thin. Then the wind billowed & such gales, celestial presences, enveloped us sheet-swept. Like figures at a party, shadows sprung from walls to stand as sudden statuary, stretching oblong. My friend, we must unleash ourselves from them as people set the dead to slumber and attempt regaining consolation's hold. Instead, the accidentalness of living finds us silenced, our connection, censored speech while knowing eyes stare. Perhaps as fog ascends from these distant park woods we view both so fiercely & so enclosed, a clearing will come for us too. The shutters bang. The scenes is obliterated. We clutch hands like shaded yews encircling some churchyard in a season of private faith, love, private faith and private mourning.
About the Poet:
Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall, The Chroma Museum