A season died this week
High-tailing into the past
Like the Lone Ranger without Tonto
Last night: stars hung on the sky’s scaffold
Over the rim of the Penumbra
Orion spinning through the predawn
Rising sun; unborn, primeval.

I reach out at full stretch
Craning my neck
Attributing change and coincidence to fate
Longing for words
Like freight trains
On cool blue rails of the after-dark

Morning clouds: billowing grey waves
A white cotton sea forever foaming
Tide after tide
Dreams fraught with menace
Burnt black and dissolved to darkness
Walking optimistically into rooms
Where sunlight pours
Like a treacherous golden draught
Already I have lost the day

Patrik Gryst


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