Tomorrow is there,
lurking in the darkest hours of today,
waiting with its claws and its thorns that tear the flesh
and etch fatigue into every joint.
The bright dreams of once
hang like framed pictures high on a bleak wall,
not quite out of the reach of vandals.
Spray-painted worries splatter the colours with black,
and attercops spin their sticky webs
that catch not flies but silver fishes,
flick-flitting through the calm waters of what might have been.
Might yet be, who knows?
Who can see through the murky veil?
Between then and now there is no more night,
no gentle buffer zone,
just a choppy sea full of whirlpools,
the harsh cry of gulls,
and the same words, chitter-chattering round and round.
Peace and silence sail beyond the reach of mortal hand
and the sails are black.
Somewhere, far away, a sparrow chirrups.
I toss a handful of crumbs to clear the rags from the air
that fills with soft feathers and beating hearts,
and I remember the golden cube of stone,
old and sturdy, set in clay and lush meadow,
the well of quiet, that waits at the end of the night.