Jason Morgan: ‘What Are Illusions?’ and ‘At the Old House’

What are illusions?

 Lies will take the keel, and set the path

and new worlds into life will come.
Does the artist’s eye not see the truth,

woven in the song of mirrors, or
the hushed fan indulge magician tricks,
and the watching eye the screen become?

Life can assume a whispered rumour,
as surely as King Oedipus himself undone,
or perhaps truth will reign like the seasons,
but then like autumnal leaves will fall.
When space and time compress all things,
I do not deny anything at all.  

Jason Morgan

At the old house

At the edge of the track the old house rots,
and flies drone in green grass, and on grey boards
where spilt beer has dried, and ash fluttered away
to find through the tall pines one more grave.

Sometimes dust drops from the hole in the roof,
and beneath the floor pale newspapers rot,
while faded girlie spreads, brown, damp and crisp
rustle and melt like snow in your palms.

The girdle of the river rambles in mud;
flowers, meadow and leaves breathe fragrance
to the air softer than the summer rain,
where you tread gently so to hear the dead.

You’ll find there amongst carved birds and light
hanging ageless from the cornice and walls
a door, closed tight as an umbrella,
a door, more kind than time, left open.

Jason Morgan