Not the poem I was expecting from the Oracle, but she knows what she knows.
This is almost all there is,
the day ending, cupped into open yellow bowls,
colour bleeding from the sky
and ghost clouds streaming,
sails on an endless sea.
I remember your voice, your laughter;
life was good then,
and there was magic wherever we looked,
in the morning bustle,
the night soft with stars.
I wish you were here now, to wake,
look from this window, as you did
when you were a child, and see
the same stories in the vast velvet above,
dream the same dreams.
We all grow, desires change,
yet there is always blue light in the sky,
and the laughter remains.