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
Bones
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
Dragon
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,
Ever
Elusive as the sea
Spray
Or the wind through white
Feathers?
Photo: © Wayne Duguay / dreamstime.com
© Sharon St Joan, written around 2003
Thank you.
Spectacular!