The sky, a ceiling of sallow floc,

compresses the breath, the mind, the will,

all aspiration chained to foreground,

a trudging evolution of sepic moments, 

jejune obsessions, tawdry distraction, 

the ether’s trails filtered to murk, 

suggesting, to the unschooled eye,

a natural climatic malaise


No solar orientation,

the map forgotten, destiny

opaque, a fading thought,

age of gold neither memory nor vision


But obfuscation was never Truth,

never did it speak the final word

Behind the veil, above it and within,

breathes the vibrant prospect meant for us

Breeze hints, wind spins the theme, shrouds rag,

gulls soar through shimmering air

in a paradise of fourth dimensional blue...

It is still the Creator’s world




from Mysteries of Light (forthcoming collection)