|From the book Gates. Windows. Arches|
|An Old Testament Motif|
|On a mourning eve of bird silence|
of wordless leaves and fish
a looming cradle is balanced
its swaying hawsers creak.
Deep is the dream-dust clinging
under the shoe; hushed and deep.
And the empty crandle is swinging.
And Rachael inclines towards sleep.
She’s burdened with grief and forgetful,
but she wakes and she curses her sloth
and, distracted, looks into the cradle
at its aqueous mirror below.
The naked waters are smiling
and shift in uneasy surprise.
In the dark porch someone’s deciding,
adjusting their breath and their eyes.
| ||An Old Testament Motif|