Sometimes the light becomes
too heavy. With its jingles
and its neon borings into minds,
and I long for darkness,
long for black so deep and fathomful
that only the stars can pierce inside.
So when the museum is closed,
the fridge door shut, the caretaker having
locked his gate and pottered home to bed,
then give me the windswept dark –
the rabbit hole abandoned on the moors
before the Wars of the Roses.
Give me the silent dark,
beyond Titanic on the ocean floor,
where eyeless fish just breathe and sleep.
Give me a place with the dark things, in
the deepest chapter of the night,
where the mould considers its position.
Where the magic sparks, with a flash
of deeper darkness. Healing happens.
Where we dream of long-forgotten things
in half-forgotten sunlight, of hopes
we never named. Where poems grow
in damp and dark and desolation.
Where I go, perhaps, to sleep and feel
a quietness in the marrow of my life and
hear the merest rumoured glimpse of God.