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.

Andreea Hadambu

Rik Wilkinson

Copiii rataciti

Arta nu are puterea sa retraseze liniile
sterse; Copilul, copiii rataciti
in timpul calaririlor prin padure.
Nicio masura nu-i poate plasa pe cei dragi pe o harta cu linii precise,
Printre pinii a caror coroana matura cerul,
mirese verzi si inalte; Liniile care ar face sa-mi salte
nuiaua de alun bifurcata sunt adanc ingropate in pamantul
pastos.
Ceea ce cascada de hohote a rapus, vanatorul impatimit
a chemat dinspre iazul de pe taramul impadurit
– dar nu i-a fost dat sa gaseasca.

Pasea in incaperea cu lumanari si, la zid, s-a rasucit pe calcaie,
fetele s-au intors una spre cealalta, flacarile s-au oglindit
in flacara, Viitorul arunca umbre lungi, golase: totul e
in Urma, inghesuiala zilelor de ieri sunt de vina.
       Mintea e plina de macesul aspru
       in floare; Un suvoi incalcit si sprinten,
       un Turn in ruina.