Rik Wilkinson

Children Lost

Art has no power to trace the lines removed;
The child, the children lost in forest rides.
No measure maps the ley-lines of those loved
Among the sweeping pines, the tall green brides;
Leys that would move the fork, my hazel wand,
Are deeply buried in the sensual ground.
What running laughter killed, from woodland pond
The impassioned hunter called - but never found.

Striding the candled room, turned heel to wall,
Face turned upon face, flames mirrored in the flame,
The future throws long, barren shadows: all Behind,
the crowded yesterdays to blame.
        The mind is filled with brutal briar in flower;
        A tangled stream in bloom, a ruined Tower.

Reluta Paune

Rik Wilkinson

Copii pierduti

Arta nu are puterea de a regasi liniile indepartate;
Copilul, copiii s-au pierdut pe drumurile din padure.
Nici o masura nu indica presupusele urme ale celor iubiti
Printre pinii navalnici si miresele inalte verzi;
Liniile imaginare care ar schimba bifurcatia, crenguta mea de alun,
Sunt sapate adanc in pamantul senzual.
Ceea ce a ucis rasul neintrerupt, incepand cu elesteul din padure
Numit vanatorul inflacarat- dar niciodata gasit.


Pasind in camera cu lumanari, calcai intors la perete,
Fata catre fata, flacari oglindite in flacara,
Viitorul imprastie umbre lungi si goale:totul in urma,
Fiind de vina zilele de ieri aglomerate.
     Mintea este plina brutal de maces in floare;
     Un suvoi in floare incarcat, un turn in ruine.