The sunset is solemn:
Iridescent clouds prism
A Solstice sun;
There are the crows twisting black
Against blue forcing the Kestrel
Down.
Each silence is solemn.
 

I had thought of challenge,
Sleeping as I lay witching
Within the forest hut: there would be
Sport, the challenge of each Time
That left no one to answer
The unasked questions from each Age.
I would ask each day for its beneficence
So I alone could keep silence
The way the Mage kept each year
His vow;
There would be sadness in solitude,
An image carved of Man
And each Winter would fashion my face
With lines
The way the Kestrel kept its prey
Despite its crowd.
 

I was stirred, each week,
With endurance, keeping meanings
As though all silence was an answer
For all time:
Each Summer found me tired
Inured as I was to water
Chilled by my stream:
There was always something that kept
Me strong while I carved my gifts
With life

Berries on a bush
A solemn Solstice sun

So many years wasted, polishing
Each gift.
It was no use - I tried to sell them
Through the market of my words
Until, cleaned - with
The wise man's beard, the warlock's smell,
The sunken eyes of sleep -
I left those streets of Man.

For I was a stranger, too late for gods
Too early for empathy,
Wasting away from words
The way each city, each town, wasted time
Among streets
Controlling anything that was loose
Or looked of life:
They were lost
Trapped between sounds which saught
To satisfy a lust and deeds
Which defied death
Until disgust became divine
And divinity disgust:

There was nothing noble left
Save the safely sanitized recordings
Of a past that kept a certain balance
Between the profit and the loss
Of each new fashioned faith.
There were words - no truth;
Actions - but no path
And each leader defined a goal
To satisfy demand.
There was no clearing
As there were no ways
Inside their wood
Each tree defining limits
For their life.
 

DW Myatt