It seems you had a lifetime
to make the decision
not from a clutter of youthful options
but now when the wine is ripe,
the range of vision reduced
by what you’ve chosen not to follow,
the many things you will not do,
when the sleeping shape beside you asks
will you love?

The point of balance

or rift between dark and light

when illumination wins the struggle

dragging us from our inner cave

into the dim lit morning,

leaving the dream time

and drama of atonement behind

for what may rise on ancient meter

singing us, bawling like infants

into the here and now.

The stars don’t wince,

retracting light

from their dark surround.

Rise and bring what burns to the day;

against the emptiness deep and gnawing

light the fire of your soul.

Part of me enjoys
the dark wet tangle
that will not rise
nor come in from the night
where the mystery of owl
speaks to the sea,
wings spread in darkness.

Stark white paper and midnight ink,
sun lit pale yellow plaster,
big drop rain flowing rivulets in the street
and your hair twirling in curves of fine silver;
against the tide of violence
something spoken from the silence
like an arrow parting air
with the sharpened point of love.