quick breath, heart beat, clock strike: each metronome
tick-tocks past paths that arch like R’s bowl, back
by another route, by the crook’s call home:
a lost and found crossroad, the bowed-soul’s track.
Where the cobwebbed coins glitter and panicked
sheep bawl, and the pig-boy’s stench lingers;
some walk; some crawl; smoke curls from coal brandished
by angels, lips sloughing lies while fingers
find ash to scatter and garments to rive.
But look, as smog shifts and gray dawn gives way,
and gold morning lifts her lash-curtained eyes:
green fields, still streams, and beyond where the day
breaks, adagio unfurls swelling song.
Beloved one, return, rejoice, belong.

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Photo by Rachel Loughman on Unsplash