It's a dark day, altogether
cold-wet, dripping-lank, windless -
truly not a breath.
I couldn't sleep last night;
nor could I write.
I had reached that black valley
whose dark waters soothe agony
and cure delusion. Yet
I returned in my mind to that stamp
of desertion, printing and reprinting
its bleak never on every inch of my body,
its klaxon of a raven-tongue shuddering
and jerking me in sleepless spasms,
knowing how cold folly cruelly obliterates
forever all that shining was.
And from this low lakeshore,
hemmed in by frowning mountains, I
must ascend the winding stair which
leads so far away from you.
YOU ARE READING
Gifts and Shards Vol 2
PoetryThis is the second and final volume of 'Gifts and Shards'. This takes us from the second month to now well over three years later, though there were many C poems in the collections tracking the seasons. There are no similar stories!
