Ichorian Slumber

Slowly moon-rise wakes the stars,
Throwing webs of dew across
A field, a cloud, a tired mind,
Creeping along like waking moss.

Clouds burn red behind the sun,
Black clouds, like embers smouldering,
Smoking and fading into the sky,
A fire of heaven consumed but not burning.

The sky was open, stars and clouds,
The failing sun, the misty shrouds,
And mortal minds were twined within,
Falling between ancient images.

The noise of the tomb deafened the world,
And through the stars like thought was hurled,
A ray, cold beam, last fleeting gasp,
Of this day’s light, like a finger groping,
At a mind’s resting, or warm wind breathing,
Heart pulsing slowly, beating out grieving . . .

Every day ends in such hallowed prose,
Heaven soft-shaded with blood from a rose.