This Turning World

this turning world of mans grey hair

old father clock of wine on windows blessed

stares labours pains through pregnant eyes of sorrow,

holding silent hands to ornaments of the coldest month.

 

i watch you sing; you hear me dance.

this age that creeps and shadows breath of fog,

these limping walls thumps ceilings bells as the cockroach climbs

each day no more a circle, you to i;

 

spins flames immortal wood-carved olive branch

drowning tango with the distant winds through minerals of speech,

talks church of evensong through hours looking glass.

we cross our ghosts with hidden views of stains since crucified;

 

watch us quarrel with this world as four seasons come and go,

no longer beasts with breastbones,

our harvest fruits of apples, boned and heaven bound,

this turning world of mans grey hair;

each day no more a circle, i to you;

 

now sheltered christ sleeps hours bright as clay,

on scriptures paved with nails of horn-beaked crab,

still our pregnant eyes view womans wounds on naked snow.

draw anchors chains now the high-seas breathe our liver;