Oh, night more lovely
in the hospital foyer
they pass by
the bandaged and bewildered
wheelchairs, frames and crutches
agonybent in spine and limb
how can we believe
when the body’s odd malfunctions
speak the dialect
of decay’s deceit
credos can drop from lips
too easily
on sundrenched days
when the softening shadows
of a summer afternoon seem endless
we must learn from the burrowing
cicada how she memorises the rules
and years of nightness
all that preparation and the waiting
for a few days in sunlight
you know this Dark Night exists
but not how long it may last
so fear not our own deepdown
darkness where all the buried bulbs must wait
the choirs of silent seeds sedated
alert for the uplift
of earth’s baton beat
my Beloved
I do believe
in life and death and life again
then death
though this faith is such a tattered thing
of patched and pitted promises
oh, night more lovely than dawn*
nurture this my hidden corm
stripped
to small irreverences
and prayers
for now
for just one nightlong more
*from The Dark Night of the Soul by St John of the Cross
