By Pavel Chichikov
‘Many come for help, but few accept
The help they really need – what I reveal
Is not what people want – descend these steps
And you'll see what I mean, real or unreal
To you.' He led us slowly down the flight
And as we three descended there arose
A moisture and a pungency of scent
A sharpness redolent of ripened cloves
But then, a level down, the tenderness
And sweetness of a garden filled the air –
Light diffused and golden, weightlessness,
Clemency and peace, and trusting prayer
There was a river flowing underground
Ivy and a copse of trees, and song
From somewhere in the distance and a sound
Of water falling, crickets and profound
Peace that interwove itself between
The strands of this consolatory dream.
But it was not a dream, we were awake
And stood beside the borders of a lake.
The wounded man stood with us, and he showed
Before us on the ground a tiny flower –
‘Bloodroot is its name, and where it grows
My own heart's blood is driven by its power –
See, a field of bloodroot on this bank
And every time a flower's plucked I bleed –
Once, above, it flourished like a weed
But now no one can gather but myself.'
‘You bleed,' said Robin, looking at the stain,
Why gather though the harvest hurts you so?'
‘I gather it despite my grievous pain
For only by my blood will bloodroot grow.'
‘The flower's very precious then,' said I,
‘Or never would you cause yourself such sorrow,
To grow a plant that needs your blood to grow.'
‘It is my blood that's precious – ask me why.'
The Shoulder of the Sun Part Twenty One will be featured tomorrow.
To visit Pavel Chichikov's website click *here*
