Outside, this evening, the air
is cleaner than most whistles,
I am breathing Kama, calmer,
rocked in a cradle
of evensong.
Outside this evening, the clouds
are far and few, their bellys feathered,
brushed with the fire
of Flamingos wings
The moths appear; what a
marvellous night
for a moon dance,
Jerking and humming
to invisible
strings.
I feel the evenings’ cool
I feel the stillness still
I see the shadows fill
the space beneath the trees,
with black.
I am cool and calm,
I am serene and centred,
I am like the passing
Pipistrelle,
taking what it needs
from the night.
I know
Everything.
Inside this evening, light
is a soulless thing.
the flickering of the t.v. screen,
the product
of a vacuum.
Inside is a place
where the clouds never come;
the temperature never changes;
held constant by the setting of a dial,
like a cryogenic flask
or a tomb…
The shelves and racks
are filled and stacked
with magazines
and books
and books
and magazines
and magazines,
and books
yet they know
Nothing.
© Steve O’Kane