This year and half gone a melancholy march, hope betwixt a highland and a lowland road. This play that writes itself yet bides of time its curtain call, Here nests of mist and wire scheme to bind the heart, where scene by scene for everything a time awaits if not the comfort of a cure Great hallowed nave of dreams, come transept prayer desk, pilgrim’s trust or candle stand No greater test of faith, when turn to find the wishing-well is choked Moon painted black, belief held close now vanished into thinnest air, yet blood is always thicker, unfailingly it calls Whisper long a requiem with lowered head to careful rest my eyes Light itself will slow and there in vacuum rendered listless as a platform clock Tricks no heart may calibrate, this precipice, this edge of death Who shall know how best to take, the hurt upon this day we lay to rest
Posted on: Fri, 09 Aug 2013 13:57:59 +0000
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