Some people claim that Homer wrote every story that ever could be, or that it’s all in Plato. I find all the words I need in Yeats, who, of course, I have to thank for letting me borrow a line of his for the title.
Of night and light and the half light
The skittering of loose pebbles
beneath the tread of unsteady feet,
and the slope yaws, slides
into a twilit gloom of uncertain light.
Hanging by a thread,
so we clutch,
even a straw will do.
It slops, fear, like filthy bilge water,
oil-dark and dead, filling the stomach
with reasons to retch.
But then, when the foul tide retreats,
and hands, tongues, paws, tails
say welcome back,
and the sand shines silver-gold,
bright as meadows and blackbirds,
when the fear dissolves
in mists of after-dream,
and the sun pours and pours and pours,
spreading peace like butter,
then, there is pure happiness.