day is a
rising struggle, a
bark in the dark
and a claw at the
If you see me
with my paws
then take my
in hand til I’m
…everything that is illuminated becomes a light…
Too dark, Leonard.
Just after Solstice, the days still short,
the dark surprised me in its early arrival,
and your first song grabbed me
with its midnight-pitch grip,
and Isaac bound by demons,
crying, Here I am, Lord.
These days are dark enough; I
turned from you to Bach,
where even wintry Leipzig
could sing with counterpoint.
I did not want it darker. The darkness always gapes
and I have fought for life to prise
myself out from its grip.
A cry of what? Of pain?
I cry, I cry, out to the Light
to banish dark again.
However it hits us – with sudden strike
Or slow attrition – it hits all the same.
Movements may be slower, tentative, like
A creature not accustomed to the day;
Or, paralysed, you might see the sun and
Not know that it calls you to anything
But sleep. If so, sleep deep. Tomorrow’s hand
Is stayed for now. Times without mask can bring
The faces that we long for, and our feet
When broken trample less. Now you may know
The truth that says Liar! to the swift and fleet.
In all these days of infinite regress,
Blessed are the poor in spirit, it says.
The copers always say yes until the last
and the question’s sincerity must be matched with the moment,
the timing devised for the heart to respond:
no hallway exchanges, or coffee machine chit-chat.
Space is required – a safe place to land
when sand bags and bubbles collapse.
Too late to be asking when the home is not made,
when the body’s been drifting in the rye all this time.
Catch long before the question is asked;
catch long before the reply.