LOST 1
My white winged soul is over the sea,
Low over the silver waters,
Far from sight, for duty
And the hope of peace.
Gone from this world,
Gone from the next,
Spiralling down to earth
To scour the debris of other’s joy.
There is some small joy in loss,
But not this loss.
Settled and content were we,
As rocks on a sun-warmed hillside
( the popping of gorse, the dust of heather,
the impermanent river of skylarks).
Settled and content, rippled in sheltered shade
(the hum of bees, the dance of gnats).
But each change brings irrevocable change.
Worlds end at every whim,
The ruins dreaming in emptied desolation.
Time, a syncopated stutter
To relive or forget in themes.
The moment before death –
An unravelling of strategy and excuses.
Something pure there, something silent,
Something wrapped beneath the pain and sorrow,
Something unutterably sweet, something eternal flickers
Before the moment and the light dies.
Before the terrible glorious cauldron darkness,
The seething dice thrown before dawn
Where we have lost our voices
And must learn to sing again,
Sound by sound.
—
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