Awake and Awakener, be here in the pause –
because the pull out of night is not sure.
Weight gathers, becomes a body; there’s the turn
to find ground. And light. Then the fumble for clothes ...
But to pause, to let things circle around.
In my hands, the stove ash is soft and warm as a cat’s back.
There’s a crumple of paper, then wood-splints catch –
and sing old headlines to the loosening dark.
Two palmfuls of water pat my head into shape,
flesh quietly brisking bone.
Thoughts ghost through.
The lattice of bird-song builds;
dawn breathes, swells,
and the sun creeps up, fingering the trees –
that deep turn, that touch ...
But maybe you stiffen –
and fall out of night incomplete;
so day is just a break-in, darting into your eyes.
And you lose the nuzzle and glow under your skin,
the earth gruffly affirming your feet,
miss it widening with your eager stride.
Sure, light jumps up with a click;
the ceiling's held up by dull flat walls.
Here you can stay.
The news is on time – and much as ever:
names behind the speeches have changed,
disaster shifted its billowing tent.
Contests and cups have been won.
And the screen gleams, serene, a perfect witness.
But a world has faded. Died untouched. Unentered.
And left us behind – bare, alone in ourselves.
O teach us to turn, teach us to bow.