not so distant dogs bay through streets
an uneasy wind slaps at leaves
and now a wail-whoop of ambulance gloom
loops the dying afternoon
and even in the home
from my room
the dinny grin of television
and banging doors
a dull clang of words
and the beating of my blood
at small impending dooms.
Yet.  
I am held - for all that -
shimmering-still
a castle
in the eye
of storms.
Peace is not a white flag.
its molten gold enfolds
the floundering soul -
enthrones it into
a whole eternity of
untold quiescence.