A kind of kindling,
sparks awaken from dormant carbon.
Dreams burn across the brow
Through the heart.
Across the senses.
The town is sleeping through the winter’s clamour
The wind is simply a snore, or a murmur unknown
to the self.
Doors closed, windows rattled by thrusting, prying hands
Snow, hail, rain.
The brightness flickers through smoked memory;
Glimpses of a history once held dear
And now seen through the eyes of the old,
Tarnished yet burnished too.
Light and dark, twins of existence beholden to none.
The sea turns its sheets, tosses them for freshening.
The light here believes in our tale
Shines on our stage and smiles at our plays
As it has since her Dawn and will past our Dusk;
It is backdrop, pervasive and insisting, gentle.
Lovers’ hands grasp the truth hidden in the dew
The grass, moss, heather; all provide a cushion
Upon which we can build our mighty tale;
The sparks drift through us, enlighten our load
Press our eyes into service; record this day, for it will become dream.