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.

Laura Persoiu

Rik Wilkinson

Copiii pierduti

Arta nu are puterea de a gasi pierdute hotare
Copilul, copiii pierduti prin padure in galop.
Urmele lasate de cei dragi ce poate sa le masoare
Printre pinii ce se leagana, mirese inalte si verzi;
Urme ce ar misca rascrucile, nuielusa mea de alun,
Sunt ingropate in pamantul care simte.
Ce rasete ucise in fuga de la iazul din padure
Vanatorul cuprins de patimi a cautat – dar nu a gasit.

Trecand prin camera cu lumanari, cu calcaiele intoarse spre perete,
Fata in fata, flacara-n flacara oglindita,
Viitorul alunga umbre reci si goale: tot ceea ce a ramas in Trecut,
Invinovatind tot manunchiul zilelor de ieri.
Mintea e plina de macese salbatic inflorite;
Un izvor in floare incalcit, un Turn in ruina.