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.

Iulia Anchidin

Rik Wilkinson

Copii pierduti
 

Arta nu are puterea sa ia urma traseelor
sterse; Copilul, copiii pierduti
in plimbari prin padure.
Nici o masura nu trece pe harta traseele prin camp
ale celor dragi Printre pinii miscatori, inaltele
mirese verzi; Campiile care ar misca
furca, nuiaua-mi de alun, Sunt adanc ingropate in
pamantul sensual.
Ce rasetul continuu a ucis, din lacul
de padure Pasionatul vanator striga- dar
niciodata nu gasi.

Pasind prin camera cu lumanari, cu calcaiul spre perete,
Cu chipul inspre chip, flacari oglindite in
flacara, Viitorul arunca lungi, sterile
umbre: toate in Urma, aglomeratele zile de ieri
de vina.
Mintea e plina de maces salbatic in
floare; Un rau intortocheat in floare, un
Turn ruinat.