Preludes

 

I.

 

The burnt-out ends of smoky days

lie limp and bare along my street.

I pass them in a haze.

I walk a beaten track,

my eyes looking inward

and sometimes at my feet,

but never looking back.

 

Time is like something I can hold.

The weeks and months are heavy things.

Somehow I am numb to what the next day brings,

and the next and the next;

minutes pass, but I am cold

while Time is warm.

I let it go and it moves on.

It leaves me tired and worn and old.

 

I see what’s past and dying and dead,

but if Time could see, it would look ahead.

I let it take my wasted hours and pack

them in a bag of years.

It leaves behind my hopes and fears

and goes, never looking back.

 

 

II.

 

His soul stretched tight across the skies

but the rest of him was loose and limp.

Collapsed in bed,

he listened to the sound of beating wings,

the listless echo of words once said,

and the multitude of lies

launched from sooty rooftops, and things

creeping from beneath the street,

where life and soul and body meet.

 

His blankets twisted round his legs,

he clutched the pillow in his hands.

He peered into a cup of tea,

but only dregs

were left behind.

His inner eye saw distant lands,

with sunny shores and deep blue sea,

but he himself curled where he lay

to dream of clouds and night and day.

 

And in a country far away,

a girl is lying in her bed,

her arms folded beneath her head.

Her eyes are closed,

but she can see another place

with dirty shingles instead of thatch.

Her wistful spirit knows a boy

whose shadowed face

is closed in sleep,

and through the clouds their gazes catch.

 

Where life and soul and body meet

—beneath them in the city street—

the things that creep and walk and soar

ignore the sound of beating wings,

of boy and girl and soul and sky,

and search themselves for something more.

 

 

III.

 

Withered leaves about your feet

whip up and down the lonely street.

The sun has set.

You walk alone and think your thoughts.

You hear the whisperings of things

around corners and in shadows.

You wonder what the nighttime brings.

 

The sky is foggy, dark, and deep.

Your footsteps are lost in heavy silence.

An errant breeze blows through your fingers.

Through the clouds some starlight lingers.

Around corners and in shadows

skittering things with yellow eyes

wake from daytime’s lonesome sleep.

Somewhere close, a child cries.

 

Ashes blow amongst the leaves.

You scuff your feet along the curb.

Your mittened hands are tucked away

into the pockets of your coat.

By light of day

the city is golden, harmless, new.

You like it here at here at nighttime too,

though now the shadows hold their sway.

 

The voices from the day at work

pound and echo in your head.

It’s quiet at home,

but you prefer to stalk the streets instead.

The whisper of the tired breeze,

the leaves and ashes on the ground,

the movement of the distant trees

are like a cloak you wrap around

your shoulders, and you wear it as your aching feet

move you away, along the darkened street.

 

 

IV.

 

The morning comes to consciousness

and floods the room in dusty white.

I wake, and wish I’d stayed asleep,

grasping for my abandoned dreams.

Along the floorboards, sunlight gleams;

into the corners shadows creep.

Outside, the birds are taking flight.

 

Time moves far faster

than I myself, alone, awake,

can bear to go.

I savor Time in all its warmth,

unwind it from its cage of clocks,

untie it like a knot of string

around my wrist for memory’s sake.

I like Time clear and soft and slow;

it has a calm, unearthly glow

that turns to piercing unchecked light

when it is caught and wound and tight.

 

Today I think I’ll bide my Time

and spend the daylight hours in bed.

Through my window,

I can see the sky

and all the people passing by

and hear a simple pulsing beat:

Time catching others in my stead

as it travels down the busy street.

I’ll listen to the ringing bells

of Time in churches and in towers.

Perhaps I’ll catch the sound of wings

as Time flies past;

or I’ll forget to count the hours

til nighttime falls, and maybe then

I’ll stretch myself awake again

and shake away my daytime doze

and sit along the windowsill.

And if I’m quiet enough that I

can hear the beating of my heart in my chest,

perhaps I’ll also hear the rest:

 

the skittering creeping shadow-things

that nighttime usually brings,

the roaring of the planes up high

blustering through clouds and stars and moon,

and fog and dark and deep and sky.

And maybe soon

I’ll call Time down from where it’s been,

and all the things it’s done and seen

will quickly, softly disappear

for some other listener to hear.

 

And in the morning Time will go

and find the things that have been lost—

the sounds and sights and memories

and heat and fire and cold and frost

and everything that’s ever done

by anything and anyone,

—and Time will take all this and pack

it in a bag of years.

It will take away my doubts and fears

and leave:

but always looking back.