Now. Today, there is me.
Soft cushions behind.
Flickering eyes from morning’s light
dancing across a thick horizon,
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
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.