The evening is a thick, black lid
closing over the sun:
Tonight the sky is inlaid
with pink clouds
because the light has crawled
inside of them falling asleep.
How is it
I understand light’s recital,
yet have no words to
A poem without words?
A poet without a voice?
Today I watched a child,
a young girl, my daughter,
stepping into a puddle of light.
She said: I have sailed here before.
Her breath has the weight
of a sparrow. Her eyes, like poetry itself.
She wears a shawl of indigo aura
and gives me armfuls of her enthusiastic love.
My seven-year-old daughter, with a plum-tree stick
in her hand, saving earth worms from drowning
–winter storms have destroyed their homes
—her enthusiastic love was saving them:
Bellies down, she placed the exhausted
earth worms in the grass, quietly talking to them.
To the dead ones she whispered:
I love you and have a wonderful afterlife.
Of the darkness: Together we whispered
about light falling asleep.
From my first book: ‘In Forbidden Language’
Publisher: Stillpoint Books
Editor: Eve Costello
©dah / dahlusion / Stillpoint Books 2010
all rights reserved