In Gathering Light
1
I sit in darkness
my back to the words
gouged in stone
and wonder what
phrase the stars will
utter tonight,
what wisdom
one finds in dreams
or the widening circles
of the hole that was
there
in water,
in earth, in the common tongue
of all things.
The tree speaks
a different language.
I hear
whispers, a bone-flute’s
whistle, the sound of metal
striking dirt striking
wood,
but nothing, no words
I can gather.
2
I have lost my shadow
among the weeds
of this place.
Somewhere
it wanders,
a thin, grey shape
waiting for light to give birth
to the blackness
I call friend,
itself, shadow.
My fingertips trace
the lines, hoping
to draw something
from the stone –
an unknown word,
the druid’s
small bag of dreams,
the lyrics of the stars.
* * *
Another poem, another artifact from the mid-80s, rediscovered last year.
O at the Edges 
I especially love that last stanza!
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Thanks, Lynne. If memory serves me, this started off as a sonnet. Ha.
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I wrote on FB “Beautiful,thoughtful, sombre poem. Calm yourself and read this” But I was not allowed to post it . The message said because this had been identified as “offensive” Can anyone tell me WHY?
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FB is a mystery. That happened last week to another equally inoffensive poem.
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Could it be the gravestone picture?
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Hmm. I don’t know why that would do it, but FB logic is anything but logical.
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