Catherine Simmonds
11/12/99
So early,
dark’s stand deep in rain,
wind sound,
all above ragged
on the closing year.
Curled.
What place for us here,
what idea
for this morning?
Before it births us faintly
into our outward line
our rope.
Across the stone floor,
hard to believe
was ever summer here -
the paint buckled
or curtains drawn against heat,
and the too bright sun.
Here, still no twilight
none,
still the dark storm.
Day’s promise held only in the clock
6.55 am
- our faith moving.
Page(s) 99
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