Suddenly stars, said to be made of fire, are live things,
young and energetic, kicking up the gas and dust
beyond my understanding, but I can dream
and be transported that way here,
where multifold stars are being born,
as attendant pillars of cloud usher them
into their places.
An inadequate brain
signals it needs my make-belief eyes
to watch for trusted shapes to pick out
from this maelstrom of imagery.
It needs some familiarity among
all this awe.
It thirsts for it – to drink it in.
So I am imagining the biggest creatures
who walk the earth
and here they come
elephants of a galactic kind.
Two, drawn in sapphire light –
the mother peering out at me,
great African ears akimbo,
the youngster in profile, looking lost
And I wonder
how else should a young celestial elephant be?
There’s no words for the size of them;
They’re light years, light years, light years.
Can I fasten – here –
something of the stars
as they form in front of me.
I deal in reverie, incubation
and, if I’m ever lucky,
Those pachiderms of the soul
are wreathed in honeyed light.
They’re safe up there,
cupped in the palms of alien hands,
a million years of age and infinitely caring,
through withering blasts of tempest and turmoil,