Dark Hours

I walk the longest night,
the shadow zenith,
where stillness rules.
In the thicket, song birds stir silently,
none daring to bring false witness,
calling a dawn that will not come.
In the doorway of the shuttered bakery a bundled beggar slumps,
paper cup outstretched,
head down,
expecting nothing but the night which fills his cup.
Beside the cafe door, the row of smokers sit frozen
caught between one breath and the next,
all eyes turned inwards.
Along the Avenue, lights flash and fade,
empty staves devoid of melody and meter.
Above the traffic circle the clock blinks solemnly,
like a child on stage who has forgotten his lines.
The longest night rules this fractured chaos,
action slowed until the sense of it is gone.
Meaning become a strew of crystal shards,
swept and scattered by the wind,
no longer holding any more than proximity’s vague and indefinite promise.
I feel the earth strain beneath me to turn upon her axis,
and, like a child rocking
desperate to give impetus and energy;
anything to make the car go fast and faster,
I turn and lean into the ancient dance.
Calling light and love and warmth return.