Night’s Other Country

Before the great winds come and the white noise
of night, we'll cut loose from clocks and
stand in fields spread out to nowhere singing mantras.

Before the quiet waits in garments of good bye
we’ll bridge the silence of guitars
and float sound to its center.

Before hours burn to ash, we’ll wrap ourselves
in wind, in raw strips of light
our bodies wild as vines.

Before land’s end, we’ll swim in all the rivers
of the sky and drown in sunlight
inhaling love as sweet as candlewick.

Before our final season, let it be summer
resonant with wings, vermouth of old sunrises
mountains growing slowly in the rain

the light around us ripe and round
and if it dies out, let it be   extravagant
a marvel of darkness in night’s other country.

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | The White-Lipped Hours