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THE FOX LAND
(from a poetic vision of January 20, 2011)
by
Santiago del Dardano Turann
My mind flew through a portal made of stone
Into a storm of rainbows in a cyclone.
Then to a pearly field of flashing shapes
That came in focus as a twilight landscape
Of coastal redwoods with tall ferns and huckleberry
In which white flowers glitter with stars' purity.
A trail of rich green grass ran by old cedars
With blue hydrangea all along its border.
The forest dressed in perfect stillness, mute
Until long ambient notes flowed from a flute
Like meditative fox calls through the air.
The music seemed to vibrate everywhere
And slowly crested as I walked along
The grassy trail until the trickling song
Lay in my heart like tourmalines of dew.
Where was the flautist? Standing there I knew
That camouflaged amid the trees and bark
Were staring eyes. It's then I heard the bark
Of foxes in a rhythm to the wooden
Flute until the figures that were hidden
Emerged from all around me and in truth
I've never seen such gorgeous, godly youths!
Each one of them was dressed in a kimono
Of silk as soft as his clear skin aglow
With vitality and in their eyes
Were amber tones of childhood's summer sunrise.
They all bore small, abstract and colored tattoos
Upon their faces and their long hair blew
In thick, rich layers teasing at the air.
I thought perhaps there might be twenty there
Although most stood far off and only four
Were near. Their hair and clothes were matching colors:
One red, one black, one silver and one gold.
The music stopped and silence filled the wold.
The four reached in their obi, took a scroll
Then raised it as I saw the parchment unroll
In curling ribbons with antediluvian characters
That bubbled as they transformed into water.
The paper melted in the merging brook
To form a flowing phosphorescent book
That rolled across the ground up to an oak.
Red letters still appeared within the flood
That splashing on the tree reshaped the wood
Into a long and pitch black gothic portal.
The edges shimmered with a silver metal
That radiated into curling lines
Of delicate and entangled Celtic designs.
I asked, “What is this path, where does it go
To worlds above or to those worlds below?”
The fox boys' only answer was a smile
And then to change themselves back to their animal
Forms before they hopped off out of sight,
Or were they giggling hidden in the twilight?
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