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 
The 80s ……. I like this a lot….stars speaking, trees speaking, stone speaking…..the common language……speaks to me…..
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Ah, the 80s. Sometimes I’d like a do-over, but then I’m happy to be where I am now, and of course wouldn’t be here if not for the 80s…
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I especially like this one, Bob, and the mood of it!
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Thanks, Lynne. I vaguely remember writing this, but have no idea what sparked it.
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I still often feel that way about what I wrote the night before
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Ha! I know that feeling all too well!
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Well, some good stuff there from the eighties eh!
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Very little! But a few were worth keeping. Ha.
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