If I could rise and fly
above a moonlit night,
I would see our quiet kingdom
bathed in milky light,
shone from the single eye
of the pregnant opal queen
whose soft and haunted sight
adores the land serene;
and brings to me: poetry,
to fill my thirsty soul,
for we are born unfinished
and writing makes us whole.
The sun is no alchemist,
he shows no gilded scene
but Cynthia is the artist
giving all a silver sheen.
At night all of the simples
are turned to royal jewels:
dew diamond crusted grass
and mother of pearl pools,
shadows made
of onyx
and pearl-stringed spider
thread.
I sit and write and will not
walk
for fear of crushing tread.
From a nearby thicket wafts
a lonely night bird’s song
whose soft sad voice was made
for night
and with this night belongs.
The ripples on a shimmering
stream
play a broken beat
married to a sourceless patter
perhaps of
fairy feet.
A band of hopping minstrels
provide the gossamer strings
and in the trees, his beard
caught,
the South Wind moans and sings.
The night is simple silver,
no glaring colours harm
the peace that leads the world
to sleep
beneath majestic
charm.
A thousand sounds, a thousand
sights
and none too harsh for dreams;
but the night is growing old,
as ageless as it seems.
Now a greying in the east
warns off the ancient moon.
Glad that it comes once a day,
I grieve not evening’s doom.
03/02/93 - Written on a
golf course at about 4:00 am.
