It is late. It is early.
3 a.m. Too tired to sleep,
Feeling the house breathe around me,
its unfamiliar night sounds, a
The pores of my skin
are a million unblinking eyes.
You have set me off
like a spinning top.
Made my head explode with light.
As you lie next to me,
I listen to the white noise
of rain on your attic windows,
whispers in the static.
Even in the city I feel Her near.
I can hear you
washing your long russet hair,
a weeping willow sifting the wind.
The rivulets reveal its lustre,
like a wave-wet pebble on the beach –
your colours unveiled, a whole paintbox.
Everything becomes more beautiful
the more it lets go –
the more it releases its inner life.
The promise of frost brings
the spectrum to the surface –
the colours the light let go of.
We see what isn’t absorbed.
A leaf, in Spring, not-green, becomes
in Autumn, not-red.
What the world sees is
what we cannot contain inside us; it
spills out –
the way love splits us open.
Copyright ©Kevan Manwaring 2010
First published in Soul of the Earth (Awen 2010) and soon to be featured in the forthcoming Silver Branch: bardic poems by Kevan Manwaring (Awen 2017).