Psalm of the Sky

Unhatched egg of a rising moon
passes through
Wind surge on sky waves in breaking
cloud-seas,
Going into darkness behind thicket troughs,
it is born,
And born again, bringing a parcel of
intercepted light.

Glow crusts the aura about the skies moment
of substance,
Fleecing our gaseous geography with aureole silver,
flooding
Objects below with torches of basking white,
the luminary
Our servant guide up through the mapless
fleeting country.

I lie back in a descended water, with my
earthen view
Floating up (the reverse of arial), and look
out as if
Down to the depths of creation as it was
knocked out
And see the stars, the constellations gathered
round

Like puzzle games with dark spaces for mysteries
where
Making tales, the legends which gather highlights
of old story
In telling points, are bright fruit of an unpicked
higher tree
Glowing like last twinkles in eyes too far off
to see.

The sky is our widest screen: there, action
and stories
Play out at large, before and after cinemas,
bigger
Than television, the videos of space go back
and back
Iinto the shelves of eternal tales in
endlessness.

Whole mountain ranges are above me
as if below,
With saddles and ridges of ancient
gaseous thrust
Risen into the ether, fed on ozone
and atmosphere
A constant gallery of refreshed painting,
turning

An abstract of liquid gas into a physical touch
of art,
Brushes of life and death, a thought, sculpture,
painting
In ever changing possibility of exhibition,
free entry for all
Sky is a living pallete, the moving canvas
of a Master.

Wayne David Knoll © 6 Feb 2007 Alice Springs