The crows go hard at it, black wings pumping against the gray cloud sky. The lean of the earth, the set of the sun. Turn around and it’s begun, this slow recitation of the incantation, the full press of every blessed sense. Home a once and future kingdom. The fingers picking out the chords. The song a breathless lamentation, the feelings released by weighted stone, the sinking as the surface turns to sky. Black wings and bubbles, heaven always on the rise.
The sun sets in pinks and golds, smoke rising towards the painted sky. The earth groans and mumbles, damp earth and busy dirt, the very air the stitch work of the soil. The gray day ends in shiny shards and puzzle pieces, undertones of myth and the scent sun warmed skin, the odd patois of the jagged end losing. Some thought passes then another, then you linger on something imagined or remembered. Then the words come, or they don’t. And so I betray your shine.
It’s always the end of days. It’s always the cusp of the new age. The busy of engines and aircraft, yard work and motorcycles blasting past, the melodic swell towards this resonant crescendo. Words of the mundane, words of the mystery, the hours go mumbling by. Your flesh aglow with blood and light, the spill from the window, the stir in the sheets. This ephemeral luminescence, your ghost a gateway between worlds, this constant notion a carried flame. Adrift and anchored to an image. Blind but for your light.