Now. Today, there is me.
Soft cushions behind.
Flickering eyes from morning’s light
dancing across a thick horizon,
wrapped around.
Above, domestic sounds of rolling, rolling,
heavy thump-thump rolling, of my laundry.
As it tumbles.
Like a puddle in the rain,
I sit and fill.
But not water, nor rain but flickering, bright
woodfire flame.
Cracking and sparks, this deepest fire is retreating in time.
Far from everything.
As the withering loam of a crashing wave,
or a memory of bell-chime long since sounded,
So, in this sky I feel no edges.
But wonder at the echo
Of such far-awaying light.
Sean O’Byrne
