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.

Ana-Maria Purec

Rik Wilkinson

Copiii au pierdut

Arta nu are forta de a descoperi familiile inlaturate;
Pe care copilul, copiii le-au pierdut in plimbarile prin padure.
Nicio masura nu traseaza pamantul celor iubiti
Printre pinii dominanti, miresele inalte verzi;
Pasuni care ar misca si furca, vergeaua mea de alun,
Sunt ingropate adanc in pamantul senzual.
Ce raset neintrerupt a ucis, din iazul din padure
Inflacaratul vanator chemat - dar negasit nicicand.

Pasind in camera cu lumanari, cu spatele la zid,
Fata-n fata, flacarile oglindite in flacara,
Viitorul arunca cu umbre lungi si sterpe: toate
In urma, de vina sunt zilele aglomerate de ieri.
Mintea este plina de trandafiri salbateci in floare;
Un sir incurcat infloriti, un Turn ruinat