FELL

Silence falls upon a cup,

slower than the sunset,

denser than night.

The clock ticks quieter,

its hands shaping

the unborn in the unstill

space into tomorrow’s

peace.

The fire in the grate

resiles from cowering,

solacing corners gravid

with blear echoes,

warming flagstones worn

and scarred by

fell boots that ground dust

and spirits in a soundless

rite of passage.

Knouts of tallowed leather,
once tall and proud,

now lie lodged beside

their liege lord,
the felled by the fallen.

Alone I weep waxen drops

in the transfigured air.

Light drapes its way over

garden and hedge

into a shadowed lane.

The gloaming curls into

a smokeless pipe,

as a waft smooths a page

darkness owns.

At dawn, doves shall return.

© 2020 Lilium Candidum

Lily’s Verse

Image: MAN IN A BOWLER HAT

Source: wikiart.org

Artist: René Magritte