Dark days are a-coming


Dark days are a-coming,

Say the geese on the wing,

The horse in the stall,

The tiny, scuttling things with small voices.

Dark night is falling and the stars are dim,

Say the sailors on the sea,

The seals on the isle,

The gulls on the cliff.

When will it end, we ask,

The people on the edge,

The old and the sick,

The small scurrying people with small voices.

Poets cannot read the future in their words,

Or cups of tea,

Or the flight of swallows,

Or the waddling walk of the magpie,

But the sunlight through the trees,

Moonlight on the lake,

The stars that shine through cloud and raindrops,

Weave their beauty into the world,

And we can say, Ah,

This is what should be,

In our millions of small voices.

Hopeful lines


Beneath the setting sun,

river runs,

vermillion red,

and silver-bellied fish

glint golden,

in these precious moments

before the dark.


Silence falls

between the branches

of winter trees,

tangled with stars,

when the moon hangs heavy,

And winter cracks

its icy knuckles.


The sky so full of stars,

one more so bright,

we can hear it singing.


We could hide,

deny and submit,

or we could run,

put on red shoes and dance,

sing the last songs

in the teeth of the bullets.


Red wine, red flames,

and a red sun setting,

and the embers sigh,

and the red fox barks,

winter will pass,

the spring is coming.