Jason Wilkinson



Wake Me

Wake me in paroxysms of twilight
Its soft voice
under the trees

Spent beams
quivering in a dim arc
above faded stone

Guide me
along moss-bejeweled
heraldic frescoes
of silver and blue

Let me kneel at the river’s edge
rake my fingers
through incandescent loam

Wake me
where threadbare pennons
from gothic bowers dangle

Lift me
with mornings untamed requiem

Wake me
among the dead lamps reclusive bleeding

Wake me in the twilight.



To A Circadian Rhythm

The sky is ever deliquescent
moulting ephemeral
sanguine pins
a juggernaut dancing gloveless
in the architecture
beyond torpid hostelries
words unravel characters
fall and blackened men
construct gauzy daydreams
neath a long, silent carapace
:spawning dark agents

Meadows basque
purblind and bliss-weary
travellers on the damp leaves
restored by Summer’s fawning bouquet
sprawl among those unabbreviated pastures
to catch the whim of its lingering breath

Along the floss windows blush
their scarlet panes like burnished flowers

Eyes maladjusted to Dawn
her pale torch crowning the heavens
flutter before a cascade of sharpening light

Where druids gleaned laconic wisdom
through a dusky flame
and the now derelict
moss-covered spires
with footsteps rang

Where voices trapped amid fluted yarn
spun hircine dreams
a cobbled web now
reaches to the sea.

Death Of The Sitcom: An Abjuration

Never shall I argue with hinges
forgetting the lurid anatomy of Daybreak
under flannel
nor gather silhouettes at eventide
sewn among tempestuous, vernal plaits

Where fields of dross are beaten
I cast no searching eye
no shadows in the blackening paddock
no airs to vaunt my weightless claim

Beneath lambent waters
my rhythm is coiled
unguided by this cryptic trance of Living
I dance upon the wet stones

To beg the wind its insuperable mercies
baiting starlit peaks
with rubicund idylls
hermitic sang froid
to raze their hoary-crested diadems

Alas, where faint beams rattle
The proscenium waves tactically
Sped on to delirium
by the click of a silvern hasp
a bare foot
through tall-flowered esplanades
paler than gravity.

The Friars Of St. Joseph

Used to walk around in leather
earthen crewel powdering flagstones
diseased traffic
exchanging whispers

They had a rectory garden
shaped like the olde cross
with helices emanating
from its prismatic centre

Unpainted benches
intimate a frangible diadem
-lolled neath spires of auburn and jade

The church bell’s terse, metered prose
beyond rumpled wainscoting
deciduous flora
mouthed in a turbulence of chimes
held the ear as if by fetters

Darning Time round their lone orbit
hemming the quilted grass
advancing in pairs
robed men trace
gullies of iron

From blithe hollows
whom eulogize the Earth
with tremulous ablutions
unspoken murals
invoke ebullient hermitage

They pass among sophic boughs
mantic spines of luminosity

They graze demurely
chiding the lascivious heat
guided by song.