Echo of the clocktower, footstep
in the alleyway, sweep
of the wind sifting the leaves.
Jeweller of the spiderweb,
connoisseur of autumn’s opulence, blade of lightning
harvesting the sky.
Keeper of the small gate,
choreographer of entrances and exits,
midnight whisper travelling the wires.
Seducer, healer, deity or thief,
I will see you soon enough—
in the shadow of the rainfall,
in the brief violet darkening a sunset—
but until then I pray watch over him
as a mountain guards its covert ore
and the harsh falcon its flightless young.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 8 Number 6, on page 40
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