(For Patricia Weatherby)
It is the lateness of the day that turns my head,
that turns my mind and winds my head to ticking clocks,
the clocks that mock the destinations and designs
of all the things that I would do and be, set down,
lined up, like stops upon a route. They stretch away,
much farther than they first appeared. And time, still young,
still running on ahead in cruel surprise; too far
ahead, too far to call back now and ask to wait,
to ask if there is light enough to travel on.
It is the lateness of the day that turns my head.
It is the thinness of the light that hurts my eyes,
that squints and strains my eyes until they burn and blur;
blurred and burning with resentment at this light
which lacks the will to cast a shadow, form a shade,
a dimness into which unfocused eyes might peer,
imagining a face, the movement of a form—
a face and form unable to be seen again
by other means than these … it does not mean I mourn.
I’m inconvenienced by the lateness of the day.
It is the thinness of the light that hurts my eyes.
It is the darkness of the night that chills the heart,
that tells the heart the quiet lie it longs to hear:
that there is life within the noises of the night—
the creaking board might be a footstep on the stairs,
the wind which mumbles through the window frame becomes
the rise and fall of voices from another room
where dusty emptiness conceals itself and waits
to brand its barren, useless truth upon the soul …
the universe looks on, obscure and unconcerned.
It is the darkness of the night that chills the heart.
It is the darkness of the night, the thinness of the light,
it is the lateness of the day that tricks me into whispering
By Dan Maguire
Sorry this is so late! Finals are really getting the better of me.