Compass

Where I Strode...

Where I strode Orphic, once in lyre-bird pride,
now I slide silent, leaning on a sigh,
under the moon, under leathery leaves
that wait upon their ebbing chlorophyll.

Nothing is carried to the other side,
though it is rumoured memories try
in the silence where abscission first grieves,
neither crossing the threshold nor lintel.

In houses of marble, such moonlight sweeps
across veined ceilings, night's car passing grey,
pulling away into the fade of day -
dreams and confusions - a wreath laid at dusk.

There is no weeping here where gaunt love sleeps,
though all its joy has hollowed to a husk.