Your eyes face a fading light,
searching the sway of a young man
whose footprints are shadows on a dark sea.
You are there, high-tech trainers skimming
through your mirrored path,
interrupted only by the relics of a stone wall,
where you hesitate, then stride over its
irreversible past.

A halo of crows signpost the place
where a man might die. See beyond
their silhouettes, unwrap the heavy sky,
cloud by cloud, lay them to one side.
You can see it now, when you stepped out
of the boundaries, through soft glass,
falling through coloured dreams
like a stone through water.

Your monochrome sight
always returned with cruel interpretation.
Perhaps you grew wings to measure
the sun’s distance, simply to witness
its gradual extinction. Your acid burned fingers
silenced love’s suggestion.
Who inhabits you now?
Have the colours eclipsed your reflection?

The moon moves closer to your sight,
but forms no image on your mind.
Only the crows witness your death,
the black doves of your imagination
feast from your tight shut eyes.
You creep into the landscape
in seamless white, your undefined grave
a brief resemblance of your life.

 

Rowland Hughes ©