No light seeping through the blotting sky
no birds
no red flecked dawn of blood and wine

All is yet to be
everything is before
a dreaming time
before watches and sails
there are moments here
quite still
as if time could stop
like deep darkness

There were times
boiling afternoons
wrapt in sheets and lovers
a dishevelled heap of all our thunders
in the slow unwinding
just before consciousness
there was an Eden of eternity
a moment
a second
a glory of not being
when all our limbs belonged
only to the boiling

There are times
dreams perhaps
just before the clarity of knowing
the instant before awareness
a glimpsed moment
without sense
without patterns or meanings

Life has no narrative
we make up stories
edit the world
to fit our patterns
really it is only the cacophony
of all our thunders
billowing like curtains
a random jot of moments
as if they all happened at once
in one beautiful
still
precious
undefined moment
just before dawn
waiting hapless for a tock
that will never…