Elaine Ellis: Poet, Painter

I felt a parting in my soul—

like a child abandoned,

barefoot and bereft,

scooped up on the wind’s waves—

a tumbleweed of insecurity,

looking for a home

Hands cupped in open prayer, cradling 

the veiled figure of water through throat’s 

dark valley— 

gathering oasis in a parched soul— 

Begins branching— capillaries—

tributaries— feeding, becoming 

one— transforming 

dust to clay, eventually departing 

once more through skin’s doors, joining soft 

edges above— only to rain down—

tears on the window 

pane, holding shape via surface tension— 

mesmerizing in restrained resolve, 

beautiful in sighed surrender— 

virgin pools 

of possibility—

The rhythmic lullaby of distant shores,

even its faint echo is heard no more.

Like a child adopted, we know nothing

of our birth, a Fatherland forgotten.

What sun— what moon— what air—

shone, danced there? Did we taste

salt water on cracked lips? Did craggy

terrain refract rugged limbs? Did toil

or injustice, like a relentless wind, 

ferry us from infant soil?

We are the first immigrants—

a thread in a tapestry no longer sure 

of our colour, rejected—

This land has become our mother.

Traditions like a tree pruned,

must be renewed. History

has a way of making us all pay.

The bread crumbs no longer lead home. 

The glowing hearth, the ancient myths, 

the shared songs— consigned to fairytales’ fables.

The fortresses of culture now share

one room, standing under the vast canopy 

of distant stars, grasping our small suitcases 

of significance, hungry for portals of nativity

no longer open, until we peer at each other.

Like winter trees, standing in the frigid 

breeze— stark, naked jagged silhouettes

against an azure sky— so am I.

Stripped of my leaves, my youth underfoot—

trampled, buried, rotting in the ground—

forsaken for a tall evergreen.

Haughty, proud, she towers above me now.

Looking down with a smug grin; thinking she’s 

queen of the land, despite my circular bands.

Little do they know: trees like me never 

fully die. Spring will come again— flowers 

majestic will adorn me once more.

Apples will hang from my strong branches.

Fruit: pleasing to the eye and sweet to the lips.

You silently whisper my name.

From across the room, a summons

I cannot understand pulls me.

Like a butterfly caught upon 

the wind, every defence I can

conjure is no match for honey

eyes. I am lost— Etiquette 

demands I wrest my focus 

on another, but their eyes don’t

hold me. I glance at you again.

I see you are teasing me—

undressing me. I stand before 

you naked and unashamed—

In this moment, whilst everyone sleeps,

the world is an impressionist painting.

The street light illuminates the descending

snow, as it gracefully pirouettes to

the murky world below. Across the street,

the blurred gazebo shimmers like a

candelabra in the curtained night,

and the stately evergreens, freshly adorned

in innocent fur, sneak a waltz, unaware

of my revering gaze. Tomorrow,

people will tramp through the picture, clumsy

and careless, unaware they are standing

on holy ground. I turn from the frame

and thoughts begin to drift into snow stone

for a pillow, whilst I dream of angels—

ascending and descending for a mid-winter’s feast.

I felt an ethereal moment take hold.

Like a star, it travelled fast and far,

silently slipping past husk and flesh to stir

and soften soul’s pithy core.

I tried to gather it and seal it, like fireflies in a jar, but remembering manna,

that mysterious, mystical bread, I knew the

ethereal cannot be caught, cannot be held.

It must be openly embraced in the aurora of

the day when the soul is dew dropped with the

Son’s rays—

A tongue of fire, seeking a humble vessel to

light and name before swooshing onward and 

upward—

igniting a holy bonfire— consuming, banishing

Hell’s gaudy blaze.