Morning Abyss

Silvery blossom half-dreams
Of a raw grey half dawn
The horses eat the flowers 
Ringing like little church bells

Ringing out our old world, ringing
In something new, in the half dream
Quiet of the house on a morning 
Of recurrent dreams, waking visions

Half remembered wishes, drowning worries
Travel through the plague, settle in a new place
New work for an old man, that paltry thing
Unless I sing, but the song is full of dreams
And vague imaginings. 

Mouth of the night, jaws of the morning
Whirlpool of evening after the deep 
Hole of five o’clock afternoon blues
The abyss is not empty, teems with half-visioned
Apparitions, voices long departed, streaks
Shadow grey across the sun’s mowed field
No taste of summer fruit, why no taste of fruit
Where is the music sounding, jostling dance
Warm embrace, and if so, if then, 
What is the change we pass through 
Or is it into oblivion we come at last
Through the mouth of the night?

Author: Duncan MacNae

Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees. duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com View all posts by Duncan MacNae