Wednesday, 6 February 2013

The Dark Blessed Night.

I was never a lover of the day
where pity and petty dwell,
reluctant blood brothers,
The night is my indulgence;
The bright is for others.
There is space in darkness
to think and feel
the muffled wisdom of the floor,
A bread knife by day, mere cutlery;
at my time, a dagger in a drawer.
My turquoise friends, warm shadows
stretch silent, nightime's capes,
by day a killing shade of gray
lurking behind  drapes.
Raindrops fall one by one after dark,
flat splashes together by noon,
like sheep huddling in a corner,
or the welded rushes of a maiden's broom.
By night no need for pointless words;
Just deposits
in the great safe of the unsaid,
Cobwebs, guardians of the furniture,
no gap between living and dead.
Linen and silk or cotton
matter little to blind eyes,
Pebbles on the path to posterity,
rocky roads in disguise.
Dreams and deleriums
nights not yet born,
I ponder a myriad of possible things,
Untreacherous friends
waiting to meet,
By request; only the cricket sings.
I dismiss my impossible bed
not fearing my lover's flight
as the moth at the window pane,
sole witness of my marriage to the night.

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