The watery light brightens, after
Having faded for too long a time,
A poem writ in the lilting change
Of seasons and time come circling
Along the lunar month divided tides.
Soon shall be lifted that pall
Spoken of as Grey Heaven, dry
Whispers, all moulten, stripped
Bare and filled with light, gold
And yellow, newly born again.
Golden brown coming down, a pour
Of sun and newly bright sight,
Yet the coming of the light may
Mean little for what roams on still,
Stabbing, burning, shooting, pulse.
What voice might ask the road
Without lips to shape the words?
What sensations or expectations wring
Out the tired responses, old
Refrains heard without sympathy felt.
What should matter falls by the side
For what matters NOW, the change
Over from what is to what was,
The push and pull, ebb and tide