In that spring’s first true gleam,
Lightening creased the walls
And thunder gathered the rarest of fragrances
Into its mouth.

The water from my tipped bowl
Spilled down a mountain the height of a ****; the breeze
Read aloud evening’s first page.

It was then that rain rose from the soil
And a star descended
Through the roots of these words.

The evening became brighter, quieter:
No minute hand’s clatter broke through;
No wheel skidded past.

Time became nothing more or less than time.

I cast my lines ashore: sang as prow and sail burned,
Knowing my wounds would heal.

Thoughts that had been tightly woven spun loose.
That evening’s warmth lingered on my bare shoulders;

The scent of damp loam sweetened the air.
In that enormous space,

Our past seemed no more than a whisper
Sensed at the edge of sleep.

© Joseph Murphy 2017