In a room with tall windows, where he could see the garden,
With his books and contraptions, paintings and carvings,
Polished stones, pots and papers, maps, incense and music
And dragons and dreams and demons and incantations
I took him his plate and board
Talk cast long shadows out to the dark.
“I am strung quivering with life.
Bass strings from a hangman’s rope,
Treble from a curl at love’s neck,
Music leaps and echoes
Sound across a chasm carved by tide and torrent.”
Curled hands around his cup.
Heard before my words uttered
In his deep understanding I found new clarity.
“Age is only a little closer to eternity.
You will string your own story.”
When he smiled courage stood to attention.
“So many days and so few
Hold them in your hands.”
And pray
The silver never ends its circle.
