What light there is returns at this late time of the year. What light there is resumes its course, overcoming the interlude of the world. In this bright hour I want to speak with you. What light!
In this hour loss holds the memory of life. The circle that stood clear, unbroken. Now the year has passed in an hour. When I think back I can count the moments on my hand. Light and shadow on my hands, " yes" and " no" in my true love's eyes.
Now the Roding is flooding, spilling out onto its banks, forming shining silver pools on the land. What light remains is the colour of old fires. Crow stood on a branchless tree or on the stump of another in what the kid called " the tiny park". Crow, who has been there sine the beginning looked directly at the star, his mind all fire, and wondered if he'd live to see the light dance again in his homeless heart. " I have known only one thing, but imperfectly". The ancient sun on his back the only thing in creation older than him. When the light fades, then he becomes what he really is.
It was not the time for poetry or for any kind of words, actually. Words just flow and are flown down the river. The river, this river, one of many, is a mirror, is a bridge and all the things we cannot speak of. Grass and weeds and stone are one. And the wine bottle, drunk to the dregs, yesterday's happiness, the smiles and small talk mingles with the startling image of deep shadowed fish.
I read this somewhere, " The life of man is like grass: it blossoms, dries out, and then goes into the fire". Behold it all...but the eye is not constant.
To stop and take note of all the departures and arrivals. Some weep, some embrace. Make sure you have the right papers, the time on your wrist is true, then walk, falteringly, into a new hallway, a room, blinking in this new, unfamiliar and artificial light.
And all the time the waters are rising during the night. In the early hours, in the darkness it will steal into the houses, leave its silent mark on the basement walls. We see it in a dream, even in summer, even in summer and the grand, floating days.
The frail, crumbling light, the fragmenting fires, the ankle- high black waters laying waste the mind's invincibility. Everything moves in circles, and when the light returns it will be without witness.
In this hour loss holds the memory of life. The circle that stood clear, unbroken. Now the year has passed in an hour. When I think back I can count the moments on my hand. Light and shadow on my hands, " yes" and " no" in my true love's eyes.
Now the Roding is flooding, spilling out onto its banks, forming shining silver pools on the land. What light remains is the colour of old fires. Crow stood on a branchless tree or on the stump of another in what the kid called " the tiny park". Crow, who has been there sine the beginning looked directly at the star, his mind all fire, and wondered if he'd live to see the light dance again in his homeless heart. " I have known only one thing, but imperfectly". The ancient sun on his back the only thing in creation older than him. When the light fades, then he becomes what he really is.
It was not the time for poetry or for any kind of words, actually. Words just flow and are flown down the river. The river, this river, one of many, is a mirror, is a bridge and all the things we cannot speak of. Grass and weeds and stone are one. And the wine bottle, drunk to the dregs, yesterday's happiness, the smiles and small talk mingles with the startling image of deep shadowed fish.
I read this somewhere, " The life of man is like grass: it blossoms, dries out, and then goes into the fire". Behold it all...but the eye is not constant.
To stop and take note of all the departures and arrivals. Some weep, some embrace. Make sure you have the right papers, the time on your wrist is true, then walk, falteringly, into a new hallway, a room, blinking in this new, unfamiliar and artificial light.
And all the time the waters are rising during the night. In the early hours, in the darkness it will steal into the houses, leave its silent mark on the basement walls. We see it in a dream, even in summer, even in summer and the grand, floating days.
The frail, crumbling light, the fragmenting fires, the ankle- high black waters laying waste the mind's invincibility. Everything moves in circles, and when the light returns it will be without witness.
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