around one candle the whole of november has gathered.

a lost bird from the dark flutters against the window.

the eyes of the watchers feel like seeds from the oldest branch of night.

 

wears a thin dress on a cold stage. hears the clatter of nothing

falling in the kitchen at midnight. hears each side of absence

crying for help. mothered the child who will receive our dying.

 

instead of the law and the cross a white crow. in wind that shifts

by wind's whim. instead of blood and the last life long chance

clear water. cold as the only forest never felled.

 

face slides off in a november rain. 

spirals round round the swirling drain.

tight roof. sound mind. eternity ingesting its tail.

 

the view from what happens decides there's a road. or a fly

on the wall of winter. all things to be done will be done

over. the dark in a dog set to howl.

 

eventually the child is found and brought to sunlight.

horses grow quiet. the harvest goes on. she dreams the face

of a sleeping lake. no one loves the dark man of her future.

 

there are stains from what has been too much to bear.

soles worn thin. mists obscuring the missing whole.

silence full of stone.

 

a different garden. whose soil is living bone.

for whom the holy will lie. that knows in its heart

it shall be injured. where the child of the wound can be found.

 

as each sun is secret. the sorrow of light leaks through our roof.

and a garden of yellow sits at the table of our days.

immaculate flowers of silence. a cup of sleeping wine.

 

bridges crow. morning creeps from

under. greets that which has been forgotten.

taste of stars in my mouth. i shall grow a yellow house.