Triangle I - The Circuit

Again the pale, white hour
All things in disarray
The letter box is quiet
Card is written, mine is done
Pastels run, they run.

And I despair
At this affray
When all have died
And all are gone
I have no sun

With which to warm my hair
No hands, no hands, I pray
For light and to be led
No doing of sums
No tallying to come.

Forever here
Is this moment laid
At their two feet, I tread
The stone
The steps I won

Dizzied by such height in air
That I must breathe, afraid
That I might see the too-bright-light
And recognise its sign
Says onward, backward, home.

This pale white hour
Of silence
Stands alone
It stands alone.
Collected Works
Return to Collections all
next poem