Simon MacCulloch

Above a sheen of estuary, below a cloud-clod sky
Is where the light comes crawling when its time has come to die,
And spend itself in spasms on the silken ebb-tide waste
Until its dancing glimmers lapse, dissolved to muddy paste.
In sunless gulfs an unlit moon goes bobbing blindly by.

So now the scene is set for what was separate to merge
In mindless dim fulfilment of the primal cosmic urge
To be itself, the way it was before the great delusion
Of ordering perception marred the peace of perfect fusion;
All contrast, conflict, draining in a slow liquescent purge.

And that is how the hapless parts become the happy whole,
Denying the distinctions of a body or a soul;
The undistinguished lump that is existence in the raw,
Through which, with probing snout and gloss-black fur and scooping claw,
A god who’ll never speak again comes burrowing like a mole.

 

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SIMON MACCULLOCH lives in London. His poems live in Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader, Spectral Realms, Aphelion, Black Petals, Grim and Gilded, Ekstasis, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Ephemeral Elegies, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Emberr, View from Atlantis, Altered Reality, The Sirens Call, The Chamber Magazine, I Become the Beast, Lovecraftiana, Awen and elsewhere.