Poem III

At 16 years old

It is not strong darkness
But where is the light?
Dead is the daylight,
coming th night;
the moon is risen,
the sun just set
and in the cold
a cloud breathes wet
across the field.
I heavily run
and wish that I
had beat the sun.
Still, there's something
in the white
of mist and moon
and almost night.

It is not heaviness of feet that pulls me down to take a seat.
The moon so strangely shimmers, and the mist floats out a clinging hand
I didn't know.
Still, what would be
this ghostly place
without a tree?
Beneath a barren birch I lean
And learn a fear that is serene.

Masculine black intricacies
Whispering, shifteing, pierce and tease
the sky
with spiritual liveliness;
vast sky of shade and windiness
Strong dark branch and strong dark branch
Myriads in and against the blanch
And through it all there skims a soul
Dragging its body up the knoll.