Who is on the plum tree?
In the struggle
to pluck Beauty from the ether
and satisfy my soul’s longing for home,
I must open myself to the angels.
But all angels are terrible.
Their perfection is death
to all that is considered to be human.
Their beauty: fierce, pure, perfect, relentless,
burns with such brilliance
as to dismantle the fragility of Being.
We cannot be in Their presence
without crashing to our knees,
as beggars of the ubiquitous,
And when the moment has passed,
we are the condemned,
to plummet into all that is dark, cold and listless.
A vision of Beauty shows the rents in us,
the stunted, less than perfect, clumsy attempts
to clothe what we have seen
with shoddy words and paltry thoughts.
Copyright Niamh Clune 2013