The evenings are soft in June.
Blue and pink mist rippling through
Sleepless lilac-scented nights.
The silvery shadows of seabirds
Gliding over a quiet carpet of sea.
Contours are blurred, but never dissolved.
Even at midnight you can hear
the eerie cry of terns hunting low in the sky.
Dreams can be waved freely from
Sail-less ship masts on evenings like this,
Even if you find yourself in the middle
Of a port-less sea.
There is a moody and graceful comfort
In the frosted breath of a dark night.
So trusting in its soft whimpering
Like a grouse on the fells.
Days borrow light from those hidden pockets
Lined with whispered evening prayers
Of loneliness and need.
It is as though the mist-shrouded peaks
Outnumber the clouds,
Leaning victorious over the bat infested sky.
Those high-pitched cries carry echos;
A chorus of redemption
Shooting across the night like a shower of stars.
And you stand there as old as humanity
Smothered between naked fields
While your perfected dreams, gilded like icons,
smash like glass pearls against rocks.
Within, a gull’s dirty wing begin to sketch
A thousand green islands.
Those who dress in morning red
And bathe in snow like feathers
Are never really poor.
They break their earthly bonds
Easily like withered chains
And unfold their dreams like wings
Leaving only trails of sunlit clouds
To march across the sky.
We are consumers of grace,
A forever renewable greenery
Gardened by a gatekeeping horizon
Opening and closing its borders
Before our dream-bespectacled scrutinization,
Feeding our numbness alternately
with empty words and promises.
There seems to be
A persistent current tugging us
Leaving us speechless
While watching our dreams
recede to impossibility.
It will take all our strength;
The straining of every muscle
of the imagination
To resist its inscrutable will.