Anne Kellas #4 Journey

Trappings: a horse-tinkling harness,
a red leather bag and boots on the step of the carriage.
No, just a taxi, takes me there, fast
cutting the white dotted lines of
highway into miles of silent [space]
back to my mother in the ship or the plane
reversing my steps, to see her curving herself into her pillows
her red walls, her eyes not seeing me but a blur.
My mother calls me from her place far away in deep mind
where she has built a tower of knowing.
From her far tower she can see the white gardens
her own Vita Sackville-West, with lighthouse, waves
still far away enough for her to remain
totally in greenness, to inhabit, to dwell
in the green light of the pre raphaelite painters.
She can read the mind of clouds.
Lift the slight veil over things.
Show me how to live.