THE HARP IN THE CIRCLE
The hard songs come through
Holes in the night sky,
An impending electricity of purpose
Gathers into patterns, constellations
Remembered from dares we took
As children, stories around
The night time fires,
The stars, reminders of our bone
Dust congealed within our sorry bodies.
Touched with grace for a moment,
They are able to form a mouth,
Then a music, then a welter of instruments.
We hear them as animal voices,
Frogs and loons, crow talk,
The coughing of a cat,
Slap of fish on quiet water.
Oh let us sing the hard songs.
Songs of goodbye and of parting,
Of winds on the moors and
Mists moving across bogs
where plants eat meat,
Dreaming they are gods,
Where love flees a room
Dense with violins and clarinet
Laments. Pieces of loves across
Ages of time, dead ancestors
And friends turn from our embrace
To ride the night sky forever,
To pour through shining holes in the night sky.