Standing at the concrete wall
At the lookout spot at the top of the Conor Pass,
Your hair a mess of copper wires
Caught by the wind,
You remarked on the
Shadows of the clouds
Moving across the sky and
Blocking out the sunlight.
I like to think that you are the sunlight.
But does that make me the clouds?
Are we the wind?
The windows in all the houses
In which I have ever lived
Shine opal black in the moonlight.
Like giant dark eyelids closed
To an even darker night.
You have your fingers
In all of my eyes
Donating to my consciousness.
Your fingernails scrape
At the back of my throat.
They entangle themselves
In my vocal chords.
This wind is one of
Change and indifference.
It fills and drys the sheets
And pulls down the chimney
Stacks one by one.
As I drive home at night
I lose my face in the darkness.
The road markings shimmer and glow.
My head is full of the past,
My ears buzz with it.
My nose strong with its stench.
I pull into a darkened driveway,
Black as an open mouth at night.
I move off away into the sky
With not a single star in sight.
Close your lips and discover
The bitterness that sleeps
On the tip of your silent tongue.
In the evening the lights you see
From the shore are far off and pale.
They dance to the waves rhythms
And haunt your dreams.
If you close your eyes too
You can hear faint whisperings,
The succinct susurrations
Of children lost to the winds
And the waves’ roar.
Songs of dead sailors
Echoing and ringing
On the zephyr.
The blind see the world but through a veil.
The deaf hear more than they tell.
At night they come down to the sea
To touch fingertips.
They share our secrets with the wind
And their own with the sky.