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.

Teofana Trapcea

Rik Wilkinson

Copii rataciti

Arta n-are putere sa regaseasca liniile sterse;
Copilul, copii rataciti in padure.
Nicio masuratoare nu configureaza liniile de hotar are celor dragi
Printre pinii unduitori, mirese inalte, verzi;
Hotarele care ar face sa tremure nuiaua mea de alun,
sunt adanc ingropate in pamantul senzual.
Ceea ce a ucis rasul, in iazul din poiana
A chemat vanatorul impatimit, dar n-a gasit niciodata.

Pasind in ritm prin camera luminata de lumanari, cu spatele la perete,
Fata in fata, flacara oglindita in flacara
Viitorul arunca umbre lunge, sterile: toate in urma
Nenumaratelor zile de ieri.
Mintea se umple de macesi infloriti;
Un suvoi incalcit in floare, un turn in ruina.