Wings Of Men Who Wait
The early morning moon is pale as a chalk daub
And fights against the creeping dawn
Hills frozen in a shrug, pale shoulders
Hunched against the wind's insistent push
Indifferent to the gossip of the elms
No birdsong in the air, no scurrying
Paws disturb the rimy mould
Nor fossick for some prey 'neath fallen leaves
The watcher stamps his feet against the cold
And fumbles for his hip-flask; not for him
The warm companionship of breakfast table
No library of volumes leather-bound
Lethe enfolds him, snug as any lair
Whenas the stiff libation takes its hold.
Warmed by the whiskey, he embraces the day
And rubs night's burden from heavy-lidded eyes
As yet, no sign of movement from his quarry
Nor from another quarter, where, unwatched
Dark eyes observe both watcher and his target
While a small sun climbs, hides itself behind an iron cloud.
Now we, as quarry, what may we perceive
Can we be sure we're even being watched?
Windows blacken. Come day, a paler void
Will blanch the hills beyond and keep us safe
From darkened shapes that stalk in shadows darker still
We'll break our fast as though without a care
Avert our eyes and venture past the door
Into another future, like as to the past
Both discerned by Janus. A pitiless stasis
Unresolvable except by breaking ground
Shied away from hitherto
But move from here we must, when nightfall's cloak
Brushes invisibly, save for shadows, over the earth
And moonlight's strange illumination turns skin grey
And bleaches what it does not turn to sand.
We'll move through this odd light as through a dream
Bestirred by rogueish phantoms that do flitter by
Carrying with them the soul of the now dead day
And shall we ever move beyond or break away
From the weighting presences that drag us down?
| Contributors: | F, N, Beefy, loaf, Grayman, Roland, Big Andy, Apsley, Anon.. |
| Poem finished: | 8th December 2003 by K8. |