Last night across the sky, a perfect pink, a
cloth, I think, grasped at two corners and
pulled gently off the deep redwood table; to
drop out of sight, following the sun that’s
fallen and will now be gone – indeed, begone
some time in light of next day’s sober solstice.
Winter shows the finest falls of raging fire,
as if to pay for the shortness of the day;
a royal drape, shaped just so to match
the template of the darkened land – a
sight that sighs go take the hand of one you love
and say that you will always be a glove for them
when from above there is only woe
weighing down upon their stooping frames,
pushing head to toe in deepening mud that
pulls them down, at times too much for them to bear.
But winter calls upon free hands to hoist towards
the short-lived light while night, impatiently,
waits to hide the sore, the sinking souls
we think we do not know, although, in truth,
we must: we glance at them each day for fear of
looking, fully understanding; yet a glance is
enough to find and feel the pain, a pinch of
snuff that remains in the head with all the day’s
doings, all that’s been said, its tides and its times,
and all things half-read, the songs and the prayers.
And, being so known, they’ll glance back to find
our own afflictions of confusion and confessions
of the delusions that corral and categorise herds,
not humans – allocations of responsibility for
keeping them, like vermin, well outside the gates.
Yet the debate gets caught on the horns of our own
dilemma that headshaking will not resolve, where
care is the key; and were we all to bear small gifts to
those whose pain we have passed by, we would
be free and our heads would touch the sky.
Back then to the sky, the mid-afternoon night
might not delight us quite as much as the last;
a perfect pink slips silently into the wait for
tomorrow only once in a while – which is,
of course, a valued valedictory only if
hope is one of our priceless pleasures, a
treasure trove we cushion in our hearts.
But let us slip onto our sleeves the yield of such
nurture and spread the bounty wide, lest we
hide in our counting houses from the setting sun.