No need to ask the meaning of
the whispers blowing on the lake,
black as stormy days, and nights
of restless tongues.
They cry death,
and even in our dreams,
the red ship casts its shadow
on the waves.
All about, above, beneath,
and through the spaces in-between,
the light that leaks is grey
as sea spray, cold as bitter rain.
We watch the pictures form in blood
and weeping, and pretend we walk
light-footed, cloaked in blue
soft as summer seas.
Yet in the cool and damp of forest leaves,
I hear the purple voice of mother-mist,
singing the sweet sun, not lost,
but sleeping with the fallen rose.