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1st annual print edition:

June 20, 2004

 

 

 


 

#44

 

 

 

Lascaux in a Yellow Light:

Summer Solstice on the Ridge above Lascaux Caves



I believe everyone goes to the center
of their life one day when all is gathered in and
said, and all
goes out from there again as if you found
the thrown stone that long flew through time to strike
just here in the cool breath
of a pale yellow dawn.

Your long journey has been to cross
the ripplerock of time to one high
wildflower meadow in France
below the boxes of bees; now you picnic among
sulfur-yellow butterflies, primrose and oregano.
Beside you the Beloved
pours out wine,
summoning the gods.

From this high ridge, the ancient valley
opens up below: a medieval village blinks
in the distant, mustard-colored light.
Beneath your hill, the cave descends;
at chamber’s end,
the auroch, ibex, mammoth, and man.

A fingerbone layer of clay preserves
painted horses running in the dark,
the hanged man hidden down
at the end of an impossible crawl; all,
have been here before you, a cavalcade
of mammal lives, winking in and out
of marigold dark and light,
beneath the wildflower hill.

High noon closes drowsy eyes,
kisses now and wine, honey in the hive—
all gathered in and sung out loud
clearly as a Cro-Magnon child’s song
piping aching sweet as a faun’s flute.

Now all the flashing ripples of your life
will move with spiral surety,
mysterious with gravity,
to work their work of time.
Down from the cream-colored cliffs of memory,
down from limestone cliffs, rich
with old bones and flint-knapped tools,
ruffs of reindeer hairs stiffened with ochre,
the charcoal stick, and the manganese pen all fall
toward that distant river as if thrown
into the golden mirror of the sun.

On the other side of a yellow madder moon,
the rising ripples of folded land that you must cross
move away
all ways.
You are waiting
for the slung arc of the hunter’s sling
that will propel you back just here—
to one high meadow in France
humming honey-rich with sleepy bees
and all of Lascaux at your feet.

 

—Sandra M. Jensen