You will never
hear the night sounds; The whispers
of bush crickets or the fox`s bark
I half believe is dreamed.
Or see the immutable signs.
The weft in the soul,
the death of faith in the last
cobalt blue of midnight.
Or wake
to the sun etching swallows
on morning lit walls,
the mouse patter of rain
against dawn filled windows.
These memories
which constitute the self,
exist in spirit
not as empirical truth,
but small, bitter gifts
of each day
I knew you.
