A Beckoning

Here's a haunting poem by Brian Jones, which I recently stumbled across:

A beckoning
by the circle of the seven,
move closer to us.
They call to me.
They are colored of the raven
but do not shimmer thus.

A beckoning.
The tight hooded figures, changeless,
sit cross-legged, knee to knee,
backs ever so slightly hunched.
Directional stares are bunched
and piled up in a heap,
all eyes the center, though faceless.
They call to me.

I sit on the outside looking in
with a countenance dark, as sin.

The circle bigger 'round
I'm on the inside looking down.

They called to me,
to join the circle of silence.
Now my knees join their knees,
eyes become filled at the touch.
We eight, we do suffer much.
The passersby don't see
that with sorrow steeped in timelessness,
they beckoned me.

You who look at us
steer towards safer havens,
not knowing, we call to thee.
You move swiftly by our crux,
not hearing, by gift of heaven,
the beckoning.

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Copyright 1996

written 20 December 1994
Inspired by untitled work (1987) by Dominique Blain
on display at the L.A. County Museum of Modern Art