We walk a steep and slippery way,
Mixing senses in synaesthesia’s way,
It seems as if I am a chorus in a play
We feel by measures, hidden from the eye;
Time is borrowed, blue days wasted, time slips by,
I walk along a steep and scattered way.
Winter seeps me into sleep, now my soul flies,
To compose this gist of an art, as time goes by,
Unborrowed from time or tide;
I learn by going, where I have to go, inside.
Dark holds imagination in thrall,
Fear reverberates terror that,
I know, can paralyse mind and sense,
Impulses frozen, like snow:
I wake to sleep and take my waking home with me...
Some seek with all their senses stripped away
Others watch as skies fade to a kipper-grey,
An ever-changing melding of night and day.
I seek to shake off this edifice of days,
Time falls away as the wise woman prays,
She dreams to take her waking slow...
Mingles prayers, with softly falling snow.