August Morning Poem.(Revised)

Late summer morning glory,

Sunlight saturating moist northern air

So that I seem to peer through a billion tiny mirrors

As I look towards you walking in the distance

Beneath the pollarded London Planes.

If I wrote in a language more mystical than I dare use

I would write that the world is saturated with God,

So ethereal and brilliant is the August light

As the world tilts slowly towards September.

But God is a problematic word

Packed full with meanings that are not spiritual

But are political to the core, as Jesus was

When he spoke of forgiveness as the nails punched in.

God is too small a symbol for a creator,

A kiss may be more holy than a treasured hoard of prayers. 

Yes, love is political however we care to view it,

And I know this too well as I watch you walk 

                                                       towards me,

Your eyes full of laughter; your mischievous smile

Transgressive as always, yet kind beyond speaking.

And I am more in love with you than I have ever 

                                                    loved in my life.

Profoundly intuitive your presence illuminates wonder.

God is too small a word to describe the awe I am feeling.

So I stand here watching you slowly walk towards me

Among gardens so rich in colour they seem unreal,

More dream like, and yet, far more substantial

Than miraculous images in a stained glass window. 

This morning seems transformed by a transcendent beauty,

The beauty of truth in love, more radical than faith or art.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter.

31st. August 2024.

Magic Gardens.

 

Summer Landscape / Inner Space.

 

August Bank Holiday.

 

The White Semi-Circle.

 

Night Creates Strange Visions. (A Poem and 2 pictures). Revised.

After dark I am dreaming, even when awake.

Shadows merge with memories

To guide me into a labyrinth of distorted time and space.

I pass through the Looking Glass of my past and present

To glimpse shards of the future, that may be true or false,

Whatever the facts are, they dazzle for a moment,

And then are gone, just like switching off and on the light,

Something I do without a moments thought.

Is it too late to change the trajectory of my life?

Are my dreams just a pack of Tarot Cards

Falling from the hands of a magician

Playing god for all the world to see?

The beauty of moonlight invalidates my thinking.

I close my eyes and enter a darkness of mirrors.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, 23rd. August 2024.

Changes under the microscope. Autumn may come early.

 

When a child I imagined the north.

 

Reclining figure with mirror.

 

Through the Microscope.

 

Three Pictures a decade apart.

 

Coloured Fragments on a black background.

The first inhabitants of Britain were black. Remember that.

Ghost Ship Re-visited.

 

Ghost Ships.

 

The Black Spoon.

 

The Story of Two Gardens, Revised. .(A Poem and Two Pictures).

With great care the roses have been pruned and tended

By many careful hands, green fingers

Inherited from centuries of farmers, Wessex folk and Irish,

Who tilled the green spaces between the Druid woods.

Over the ruined fence the wilderness grows tall,

Beautiful but deadly, evolving with the help of human malice,

That strange desire to destroy the fine work of neighbours

Because it is good - Because it pleases strangers.

I wish I could build a wall high as my house

To keep out fox and bracken, rat and mouse.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter,

August 4th. - 6th.2024.

Oxford Ghosts.