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,