Mahler's Movements

(in me)

It was ladies taking tea
chattering
of chit and chat,

a bawdy bar
with nine round  broads
straight up on the rocks,

a parade of
shiny- buckled firemen
disappearing into smoke,

a death camp
filled with branded smells
and shoelace memories come untied,

train stations filled with
quick goodbyes and long hellos
and silence -

so much room in the silence.

And it was placing yet another rock
upon his grave
and wishing away the weight  of emptiness,

and it was the heartbeat
before you fall asleep at night
heavy in your chest,

and a hornet's nest
on a humid day
in sticky summer heat,

and a King
whose carpet
had yet to be unfurled,

and a flower
that could not get the water through its veins
and failed to ever open,

and winter's early chill
that rattles through your bones,

and your father's expectant footsteps
coming down the stairs
of youth,

and his tears
at all the stairs you've climbed
some barefoot on the starless, moonless nights.

And the fragrances bring you back
to memory's dance
where rhythm is born of joy

and connection is left to lucid angels
traveling between the space
in time,

and there is an end
to the driving panic
of African drums,

and stories have earthly souls
and heavenly wings
and underwater gills,
and harmony is found
in the wave of a wand
and synchronicity is alert

to the hoofprints that cannot be heard
but fall on Autumn's
seasoned soup of leaves,

and childrens' running footsteps in the sand
can be heard
in winter's slushy grey,

and the crackling fire
where the hand to hold
is warm

and the icicles outside the door
are far away
and the lullabuys seem like they will never end.

Where arguments are fine-tuned
and heart wars are waged
always to the surrender 

of an oboe's apology
or an offstage trumpet serenade
or the wildflowers of a solo flute.

And angry winds tear through trees
and shutters are bolted
shut,

and there is no reprieve
until the birds desert their boughs
for the offering of a new and bravely hour,

and the harsh of quiet sadness
is overcome,

like the imperceptible
letting go
of a leaf from it's tree,

or the unseen release
of a petal
from its blossom,

It swirled around me,
this afterstorm, 
like silk  fabric billowing out 

from the skirt
of a woman
spinning in love.