Stars look out from dark

Pools, and break up now in a gust

Of winter wind, till the waters are cold, stark,

And only the mountain

Crags of unsung, distant

Worlds remain

In the shining rain

Then all that is, has slipped away

Has gone, fled up the silver stair

Through the top of the sky.

Yet who walks on,

Over the dry


Of desert dust,

But one who drinks down gladly

The burning cup held out by

The bright beings beyond the spectral night,

Like the great translucent


With eyes of many waters

And growl

Of fire, or the mist-horned goats

Who bound

Along the haunted isle that floats

On a deep cloud-sea?

Or there,

Landing on the edge of nowhere

The snowy owl

Who has come to the place that can never

Be found

Of singing stones,

Of the numinous mystery,


Elusive as the sea


Or the wind through white



Photo: © Wayne Duguay /

 © Sharon St Joan, written around 2003

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