Night-fall on a winter fen
A violent geometry: the cold sun
shoots out its last protractor rays of light:
a circular horizon where perspective
converges like the cross-hairs on the sight.
Geese stream – an echoed spear down flooded-furrows;
before the silent arrow of their flight
the last thread-vein of sky-line beads, and bleeds black
into the frozen fabric of the night.
Euclid’s rules are broken tools inside the void;
your heart-beat shovels blind, your senses fail:
your sudden heavy-breathing reeling in like
a frightened field-mouse climbing its own tail.
A dark to make an atheist a believer:
you’ll never pray so honest or so hard
for some Good God to stumble in the blackness
and forge the moon and hammer out the stars.