A Day

Tea at three when the sleep won’t come
My forgotten name and the nameless itch
Intrude on the witches hour,
My fate the ditch, as crickets call from
Morning glory bower.
Sunday morning sick, window light
Illuminates the suburban refuge
Head or belly seems the choice,
All preparations amalgamate short of cure,
Beating words against the page, persisting
In a new and bigger book. A year 
To go perhaps, all flowing to the inevitable
Sea, incurable cough coming like the tide
On a quiet morning.

Echoed voices this middle watch
Murmur down the hall
Reciting snippets of old stolen stories
Dragon fire in the night, drawing blades,
Arrows of hope slaying fears, perpetuating
Illusions. 
Reminders of the plagues come before us
Ancient rebellions, long betrayed loyalty
Death of heroes. Long sleep of the brave
The king praying in his spidery cave.

Flat-topped mountains watching over all
Peeking purple hazed over fantastical
Pillars, towers of red and white, 
Yellow cliffs, muddy river meanders
Around the old church
Busloads and bicycle tours congregate
Under sunshine powerful as water
See where the famous painter walked
Her house, vegetables gardens, borrowed 
Horses. See where those older horsemen
Watered their steeds, new church rising
Among the cottonwoods. Infant voices
Echoed from ancient cliffs
Virga falls over distant mountains.

Now day is done sun goes down in golden
Glory, monsoon darkness fleeing
Across green and purple mountains
Flower of the hour dances on
A scented breeze. 

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