A pale blush spreads
across the ancient sky, a moan
in soft, waking measures.
Dreams chase each other
into the mist, a rendezvous
of quondam friends frolicking
in the silence before the burst of song,
the silence from whence I hear you sometimes.
I breathe it in: an eternity in minutes.
And then, the sky breaks, the sky
breathes out, the sky is purged, awash
in clean morning air, the refulgence
of a world born anew.
Lifted fog like breath, then slivers
of ochre tangle in the trees, sunlight’s
gilded tresses reticent
on the branches. The hymns of the ether
fly and flutter, and a calm like water
to silence—munificent, sublime.
Aloft, now. All shall be hence
auguring, expectant work.
And yet, we accede, with the chorus
of trees and cloudless sky
in crescendo, yes: It is a good day
to be alive.
The horizon appears
in a blaze of crumpled brilliance,
golden and shivering, while birds flee
with a timorous cry, “Dying!
Dying light!” This is how
a day should expire:
Fragrant with the cold breeze
that buffets the sky.
And the horizon slowly unravelling
into undulating currents
of pale, misted twilight.
Flickering, the night rouses.
A spark. Then clouds, blue-black,
thunder by, and the darkened sky flows
like swiftly moving waters to the sea
of memory, of boundless time. The eye
attunes itself to such movement, seeking
light, and finding only the wake
of a solitary star, adrift,a spark
seeking harbour from the swiftly moving dark,
relentlessly being tossed in its pull.Then
voices like the cries of sea birds lull
us to slumber, impenetrable, deep.
Yet, it flickers still,a solitary spark,
the wakened dark.