The original word set shouted, ask! at me as it has often lately. So I peeped at the poet set instead. Ask! Twice more. I decided not to fight it.
Ask (you did twice)
will this cold wind blow the cloud away?
Or are the gods laughing at this ephemeral
peace thin as cloud and smoke
that holds up prisoners with hope?
The canopy of the sky is carved
marble baroque and magnificent as Bernini’s,
and beneath we dream
of star-glitter, colour of worlds
and the rhythm of sacred sounds,
but will we wake when the trees whisper,
it is time, or is this all there is,
sleep and the devouring illusion of fools’ fire,
a morning of fleeting memories
full of ghosts?
The arcanes we once lived by
find no grip in this blue; perhaps
some sister-self found comfort there once,
but I am wrapped in the wild and murmuring
magic part of the we I make with you.