Light was always the uncertain thing
except it came from love.
Love is the death of all uncertainty,
including that of light,
but light is not the object of our search.
How could we search for light?
The light finds us.
Once found, we are the light
and when we are,
both dawn and dusk look different.
If we could go back to our first beginnings,
find there, the point that we have now attained,
but not to start again,
to verify our compass bearings -
an aviator might have said:
recalibrate our altimeters -
might we not
then find ourselves rewarded by
new panoramas, insights into
what might become the end games of our lives?
We'd find ourselves still here, I'm sure;
still in this time and place,
but with the time and place transfigured -
the evening from the prospect of a dawn.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...