Arnold Böcklin – Das Irrlicht -1882
A piece of fuzz in the air,
a seed-bloom, a soul,
will-o’-the-wisp
leading me to uplit trees,
quiet hillsides, hidden peaks.
A voice, a dream, a memory,
the sunset in autumn
and softening light:
Who can pretend the angle
doesn’t affect us,
doesn’t tug at the tides inside
and lure us under,
promising there’ll be warmth
down there.
The dark closes over, the lid:
We spin and descend,
wake dew-eyed, confused,
blink back at the mirror,
half-looking, half-remembering
dreams, premonitions,
commitments, dates…
Your life is seasons too,
told through squares on calendars,
forgotten in piles and swept up
dead things once grown
on trees,
a seed-bloom, a soul,
by will of the wisp.
Bill Pearse 
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