Critical Times

In quartz contentment of the stone
That from the people’s pearl did grow,
Slow brewed the loss of all we own
And buried deep the world we know.

Such suns that rise as shapes slip by
Where gold time gluts the sea and stars,
Where Death has dark dominion
Over citadel and bars.

Where music of the finer kind
Is frozen from our mortal clay;
Lest poignancy cure the prison mind
And save it from decay.

Where life from deep reflection yields
No peace, nor dreams that last;
Nor hope save woe, the moments fool
That taunts us with the past.

Where caged souls droop, darkly-down
Fast-frozen from the sylvan way,
Where sorrow and its shade, despair
Are loathsome of the day.

Where frightful fiends ply their trade
On yielding flesh and bone,
‘Mid Hermit sob, shriek and cry…
Monotony and moan.

And substance… slowly suckled up:
Our leper’s milk gone gray,
And scribing of the legal word
Are games that dead men play.

Twin-halves of storm, in frightful form
Mock us at our stay.
In cells forlorn, alone we mourn…
And even strong men pray!

Yet exiled Hope never betrays!
Grows back with burnished breath;
Burns bright with light of purest rage
Extinguished but…in death!

Peter Howes