Where has the flame gone now?
The world lies buried, still, dreaming light
under white, wood-ash-powdered dreams;
the dying grasses gather close, pearled in silence,
furred in magic,
to take the hand of death,
gently and with courage.
Each hoar-bound bud bears deep its icy crown of thorns
and humble hopes for resurrection;
slow birds drop heavy in the listening air;
the weary tree-stumps kneel
soft-shaken by the blessing on their heads,
the whispered white;
the wondering sloes, the alders,
are afraid to breathe, to break the drifted blossom
in their arms;
the world is shrouded close, wound fold by fold
in silvered mystery
questioning the smoking edge of sight;
and here in this pasture,
here in this mist, this frost,
behind all the shining, the singing, the power
and the glory,
here is the kingdom
which breaking the frail-spun glass of the mist
would dazzle the sight and shatter the hearing,
would wonder-whelm, joy-drown the world.
Here is this January morning.
Here is the flame.
(January,
1978)
