An acre short of somewhere vast

is a Sunday morning out of time.

A red sky after midnight and we’ll meet at the lamppost;

you have stories to tell and I’ll hang on every word.

There used to be a woman here who sang a song of near divinity,

but I’m afraid she grew apart

and wept another way.

She found an open door where the light was ever-torn

and the mourning was a phase

that her heart had yet to learn;

she was a poetry of her own,

though a sorrow still to come.

I think of her and I have wandered off again,

eternally.