Solstice

Paused. Punished by 

a burning sun for the 

length of our days,

warring, always. This

day the haze through 

which we see a land 

becalmed. Observed,

observing the length

between now and an

ill defined horizon,

longing for the cool 

balm of shaded trees

silhouetted by the

piercing light of a

day like and unlike

any other.

The Dates

The dates on the gravestone are 

stark, brook no sentimentality, 

argument. Why note them down? 

We are not so impervious to the

suffering to which they bear

mute witness. Just look then.

A year and eleven months the one, 

seven weeks the other. If there 

is peace here, it is only in the 

distance time affords our shallow

expressions of regret, subject 

to the same rule of entropy, 

time's steady gaze. Let just 

this be noted then, that another 

eye watches – circling – knowing 

the finite limits of its prey.