Michael Edwards




It stands ajar, the old wood door,

where red brown rivulets that flow

from rusty nails and lock and hinges

leave their stains on sun bleached wood.


And there stands she in silhouette

and haloed by the candlelight,

the weavings of her twisted locks,

and scarf, and flowing silken gown.


The fallow tracts emerging now

as night time lifts its darkest veil.

Her eyes look out with vacant stare

abstracted in her world of dreams.


Tempered by the merging day

the view commanded now reveals

each blade and twig furred white with frost

as warm-hued shadows stretch and weave.


And cast there by the rising sun

the early rays which light the sky

bring slow divide from troubled dreams

which fade and melt with warmth of day.