CONTACT

Orbs emerging from the shadows
in a deserted barn.

How should my senses interpret
their presence? Trick of the light, perhaps?

Diving, spiralling -
surely they own

this very air. I cannot touch
such enigmas: these beings

from another plane who have forsaken
their half-sleep to fly, fly around.

Are they Spirits unclothed?
Bright globes of pure energy, or essences maybe?

Look! One is revealing itself -
facial features, with a goatee beard.

Maybe this is a voyager - even Sir Francis Drake himself,
defying metaphysical law

to return to his beloved home
and negate all known hypotheses:

a sphere of pure consciousness, his white light
fuelled by unfinished business.

Are these non-amnesiac fugitives from the Afterlife?
And why do I behold

this dancing solar system of Souls
who swirl like wind-tossed snow flakes,

hypnotically transfixing me to the spot
here in Buckland Abbey grounds?

The past, momentarily touching the present?
Now they are gone.