When summer darkens
into owlight day and shadowsulk,
The gnomon stone on Hermit Hill
creeps unseen by hours marked
in the brittle breath of dust and detritus,
where children finger amphorae,
slipsherd, and inarticulate digits
One found a marking stone
that marks a door to go
where you need to be
Sometimes it fails
and your destination changes…
There the fabric of forgotten dreams
flies momentary, threadbare flags
that dissolve into
the question in your mind
So you cast into the Holy Well,
silver crescent, still as sky,
blackening the blue above
Seething with symbolic salamanders…
…You catch their eye; their role is imbued
by the truemind and heart
of the questers, of the faithful,
of the supplicant or sinner
who gazes into that dark beyond
What traumas awoke
what drama stirred and wormed those waters
where even now,
as an innocence of daisies
smile across the swarde,
the dark summer shadowsulk
whispers unanswered questions
in our ears…