An age ago I knew two lights
which hovered brightly in my eyes;
on an eighteen-carat platter
they were served without goodbyes.
But fate made the strangest turn
and took away their glow;
then latterly (not by chance)
they came into the fevered flow
of my mute meandering mind;
and now I disturbingly find
that I must
unbury the dream
revisit the scene
renovate the theme
rekindle the joy
reawaken the pain
repair the destroyed
restore the gleam
by the going-through-of-it-all again.
Some bloody battles in this life
must best be faced without a blade.
Few dissolve in tidiness
but most are bathed in disarray.
If we hide ourselves away from them
they only rediscover us when —
further down the winding way —
we trip on stones of deepest grey.
If I before them stand
with nothing in my hand
but sweet surrender,
warm and tender,
surely they’ll receive my words
and I’ll be heard above the din
of bitterness and hurts deferred
(while soft outside
a bird is heard
to serenely sing).
© 2011, Alan Morrison