The Cave

Feel the moss-shaped angels
on a simple rock ceiling
sing you into imaginary time,
where our sun’s rays split cloud
over newly-cultivated land,
consecrated by a golden rise
which winds the whole horizon in reverse,
our implicate order played back
by your slow movements next to a lake,
all our dreams laid out in the still
time undone by passing
what cannot appear in words,
but which smells something like peace
or patience or a play on deliverance
like the painted cattle come to drink,
delighted in the late afternoon
of one more perfect day,
unique and just like all the others.

Traces

The trailing

Perspective