Caileen
And the
angel's body was bared, and he was clothed in light so that eye could not look
on him; and his voice grew louder, ...and said: "I have learnt that all
men live not by care for themselves, but by love."
Leo Tolstoy
The
long, plaintive choirs
of
holiness echo and stray
in
the dim cavern of her soul
as
she glances far away
toward
the gray sea and recounts
the
blue mantle and blonde hair
of
a young prince she applied
to
her heart with desperate care.
Her
feelings were like skeins of silk
unraveling
in shades of dread
and
passion for a noble saint
she
had taken to her bed.
Fresh
linen and fresh virgin,
white
blossoms and white moon
on
a spring-laundered night
were
all aligned in rhythmic tune
when
he gave her the seed of his child.
A
young prince forbidden by fate
to
love; yet she was so loved
by
The Archangel incarnate.
Beautiful
in his sheath of flesh
with
the sharp edge of guilt slid inside,
he
took the maiden for his mistress
and
the quest for battle as his bride.
And when will you
abandon me?
she
would ask each evening by the flame
shattering
loose her glossy hair
and
baring her breast without sham
as
she gave refuge to his tired head
The
plastered walls were rustic and bright
like
her simple gown of linen
canonizing her figure in white.
And when will you
abandon me?
He
would just look beyond her face in prayer
closing
his eyes to hear the sea
while his fingers lingered in her hair --
so
warm and wantingly
as
he remembered the first glimpse
he
caught of a girl wandering the wood
with
flowers in hand and the green shade trembling
in
a storm wind that drew back her hood.
Her
face turned slowly in the silver haze
toward
the hill that stood beneath his armored frame;
and
as she looked at his burning presence
he
drew from her lips his ancient name
in
a question that needed no response.
He
nodded then asked her to reveal her own.
A
wistful sound that echoed through the trees
and
seemed to soften the cliff's rugged stone.
Burdened by duty and its pending deeds
he longed to rest near a journey's end
and heard in those syllables cast from her
tongue
a woman he wanted to have and pretend
his life was
mortal for a month or more --
a miniscule portion of time
but
wondered what her name might foretell
in its cadence that had no rhyme.
Caileen, Caileen, smooth-browed with
the sweet
scent
of wild violets around her head
put
on the black-woven chain mail
of
a slight warrior and fled
to
the sea with many narrow ships.
There,
she sought to be near the leader’s side
dressed
in her ringed armor as he fought ---
but
the child quickening within her died;
and
she lay in a gutter of blood.
Above
her, a tall solider with wings
laid
his hands upon her raw womb
gentle
as a harpist at his strings,
and
begged forgiveness for them both.
Soon
she awoke in a room of stone
with
The Archangel on her window
of
stained glass and the somber tone
of bells herding in the shadows.
She
lit the burnt candle near her cot
and
grief cellar’d in her damp soul
as
she knelt humbly in that spot.
It
ripened like wine to partner the bread
of
redemption she had yet to taste,
while
outside darkness fell upon the hills
as
smoothly as the veil to her waist.
And
the moon loomed like a slender craft
beneath
its bulging sail of cloud
as
the wind became that pale-lipped boy
on
The Bayeux
rug
blowing proud –
his
mild horn of invasion.
The
summer evening was coming ashore
and
the monks chanting in their pew
made
the world seem lonelier than before.
Now
the long, plaintive choirs
of
holiness echo and stray
in
the dim cavern of her soul
as
she looks toward a sea of gray.
And
the ripped canvas of her heart
embroidered
with threads of blue and gold
yearns
to be tossed upon the wave,
dissolved
in its spray of mist and cold
water
stretching toward infinity. There
a
sudden cross on the horizon stands
formed
by light and sky as she prays, thinking still
of
Michael
by her side with his slender hands
clothed in sunlit rays.
Note : The beautiful artwork is by fantasy artist, Liga Klavina. More of her fabulous work can be found here --
http://www.bleaq.com/2014/liga-klavina
