There is a draft of sun in the oceans between men

The night is like the quiet surrounding
The cry of a solitary seabird or
An imploding hunger tearing a soul
From within
Without a trace of sadness.
There is a draft of sun in the oceans
Between men,
A mute conversation about destiny.
In this nagging desolate irony
Glaciers drift invisibly towards
The naked warmth of trees and
Roaring dawnlights slip in between
The cracks.

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Graceful comfort

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.