barren
a silent day
speaks more words
than ten eloquent nights
that chatter all their hours away
in expressive soliloquies
and pregnant battles of wit and emotion
I walked in the wilderness
and through the valley of shadow
where the arid dust is the colour of ash
and the trees are white as death
no evidence remaining of their scorchéd leaves
I floated through the pale vale
of silent souls, of mouths sewn stale
and speechless in their awe and terror,
into the putrid petrifiéd earth
(the ground ground to dust a thousand times
clay'd in stagnant ponds of tears
fired in a steep-skyline kiln
far too hot and far too long
cracking now
licking the edge of the vicious circle)
and in there emergéd free
surrounded and contain'd
by rock and soil
One day I ran and ran and ran
and ran into the sea
and what games we played
the foam and I
the little summer waves
under the summer clouds
And then for ten
I spoke my soul out
to motion and to speed
and to desire and hope–
a barren day
says more than
a hundred fruitful nights
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