Still Birth
All through morning, the weight of morning lifted.
I felt words once whispered come back to me:
"Mezzo del cammin..."
I would away to our father's
house and its separation, the slow-din of Sunday's
bells falling his village as all becomes holy.
Or to the Garden before Adam cursed the earth.
"...di nostra vita."
Outside, autumn's small print
shifts, hesitates, then as the automatic still
takes hold, repeats itself within the haunt-song
of a cicada. The air fills with sheer activity.
"mi ritrovai..."
I find myself back by her side.
The midday sun pulses light on her glass coffin.
"...per una selva oscura."
by Eamonn Barrett.
No comments:
Post a Comment