Witchy Nights

The currents of pain
On the dead man’s sleeve
Have begun to ebb,
They have no business to be there,
They must find their calling
To the face of some newer moons.

She is showing him
A horizon less sunset,
The sun sinking
Into a hungry sea,
Its fire quenched;
It vapours into the saffron
Of a monks robe.

Indigestion has him in pain today,
He should not have eaten that junk,
Her delight meets his grimace,
He explains, she sympathizes and
Then she throws her potion of words
On the new moons face,
Which flees fearing unkind blemishes,
And He watches the tides in the distance ebb,
And feels the currents of his pain recede.

august 2007