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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476475" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>And The Willows Down By The Banks Of The Tay</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">And the willows down by the banks of the Tay <br>whisper through their veils <br>like ladies of the lake <br>where autumn walks like fire on the water <br>or the marriage bed of a Viking funeral ship<br>as the sun goes down like a ferry <br>into the underworld of the west <br>and all these words of passage I say like birds flying <br>high over head with the souls of the dead <br>I lay down like swords in tribute to the river <br>as if I were returning tears to the mirrors they came from.<br>Maple leaves scratch like the quills of bat-winged scholars<br>at the parched manuscripts <br>lying everywhere at my feet <br>trying to trace their ancestral bloodlines<br>back through a lineage of zodiacal kings <br>while the Library of Alexandria burns.<br>All scholars are arsonists at heart <br>as flammable as naphtha in birch bark. <br>If God were to talk to anyone now <br>right here in Perth Ontario Canada<br>it would still be through a burning bush <br>that would sound like the voice <br>of the phoenix in the sumac.<br>Mystic immolations of an Arab spring<br>spreading its wings for a poet or a prophet <br>to jump up on Pegasus or Buraq<br>and fly as if you had a star under your saddle <br>and not a spur or burr of discontent<br>that makes you feel tongue-twisted and petty <br>beside abject comparisons with Icarus and Aaron.<br>Stars soon to add some glamour to the sky<br>as the willows turn their weeping veils <br>into the shawls of grieving widows.<br>I’ve got nothing in particular to cry for <br>but I admire the eloquence of those <br>who’ve still got something to lose <br>like daylilies that can’t afford a face-lift<br>or the shell of the baby turtle on its back<br>like the sun disc of a Mayan calendar <br>that was destroyed by boyish malice <br>before it could live long enough<br>to be old enough to be doomed<br>by its own self-fulfilling prophecy. <br>Autumn is a seance of long-forgotten fragrances. <br>Oceanic elixirs and and sad sad wines <br>trying to keep their chin up <br>like wild grape vines against the weather<br>that sends their bruised amphorae to the bottom<br>with heavy eyelids and tunnel vision.<br>The air is sweet and thick and pendulous <br>as a bell in a burning church <br>that’s been to one too many funerals. <br>Bring on the night <br>like the deepest inspiration of the light<br>in the nightbird’s breast <br>and let the lost harvests and unfulfilled longings <br>that stretch for light years out over the abyss <br>like the strings of a cosmic guitar <br>or the harp I made from the wishbone<br>stuck in my throat like a sacred syllable<br>that goes witching for water on the moon <br>in the watersheds of my voice.<br>Bring tears of blood to my eyes <br>raised up out of the well of my being<br>and holding my horned skull up to Jupiter in Aries<br>let me drink to the hidden beauty of the singing <br>and all those oceanic veils of seeing <br>that fall away like the eyelids of roses <br>the starmaps of asters <br>from a beautiful woman’s face.<br>Old enough now to celebrate <br>things I know I’ll never know again.<br>Young lovers jay walking across a busy street <br>hand in hand as if <br>the other were the other’s missing link. <br>The wide-eyed stargazers <br>with no scars or bruises on their telescopes<br>elevated now by their amazement to sidereal heights <br>who will later be deepened by it <br>as the darkness grows more sublime than the light<br>and radiance sways into ripeness<br>and the candles go out one by one<br>to clarify the long autumnal way home<br>like nightwatchmen just before the break of dawn <br>having done their rounds <br>sit down at the crossroads <br>where the celestial equator <br>intersects the ecliptic at the equinoctial colure <br>and opening the gates of their lanterns <br>let the stars and fireflies out of the mason jars<br>that were the only light they had to go by <br>that kept the others lit. <br>Even as the utilitarian chandeliers <br>of the streetlamps come on <br>like a constellation of runway suns <br>that light up in unison at midnight<br>to give our long departed gods somewhere to land.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476475" data-title="And The Willows Down By The Banks Of The Tay de Patrick White" data-description="And the willows down by the banks of the Tay 
whisper through their veils 
like ladies of the lake 
where autumn walks like fire on the water 
or the marriage bed of a Viking funeral ship
as the sun goes down like a ferry 
into the underworld of t..."></div>
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