I went out walking when the night
was drawing in its coal black horns,
and grey as pale as winter cloud
was colouring the eastern sky.
I went out walking in the cold,
because the night had grown too old,
and birds were stirring, why not I?
I walked to where the river runs
beneath the bridge of golden stone,
and waited for the sun to rise
and broider lights of petal rose
among my thoughts gun metal dull.
I touched the wind, its biting breath
and tasted salt in every word,
I sang a song so silently
that only early sea gulls heard,
and they had little time for me.
At this ending of the year,
I catch the tail of falling stars
of leaves and plumes, fox flash of red,
and with a paintbrush wand I spread
the rainbow hues of light and life
and turn my back on all that’s dead.