Dear head, listen while I speak.
I’ll tell you short mysterious stories now,
sagas cast from hot metallic ore
mined in the nether reaches of the sky,
poems of love of life and laughter,
pain’s heat, if only they will drive
through the cold silence of your mind
and there by methods quite unknown
relight the candles blown
by a sharp and unforgiving wind.
The foggy “why?” the mist that greyed
many a seaside harbour dawn before
obscures the sky. I cannot say
that I am closer now
to its edge than then.
But if, when the lottery were drawn
your luck ran in - - dear head!
I’d kiss the stars, weep
and caress the sky,
sing praise
that love is life,
that sun is warm,
that magic is not dead.
1987
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