Catch the Sky in Your Blue Eyes

Wheels of weeds are wound in rings
and spiral down in coils
from the sky. They sway beneath
the fire-folk, those delicate stars that slip
with sibilant song from night into day
and waver in the dawn blush and dusk-dimmed
stasis.
Sour with sinning, clouds brush across them,
dragging the wind. Wailing,
they crack open like Easter eggs
in little fingered hands. Yet the candles above
keep their diamond-shine, ignoring the warisons
wanton whine and the grey cold lawns
shimmer into gold
in the flicker
that simmers
through.
Wading through the unshod night
I imagine those pixies fluttering with their
little lanterns bright and kissing
the rose cheeks of the morning as they skim our
surface of the world.
They lowly lull through life
above the curls and whirls of winter weather
and the green tinge of sun-dappled summers.
The purple light and umber
disguises any dense, driven desires
until the elvish eyes wink, they see it,
they see it all and keep it until needed.

Soft sand in an hourglass
sifts itself as I turn it once, twice, again.
I watch the sky turn.
High floods go out with the tide and storms
roll in ecstasy in the wild sky before vanishing.
The moon comes and goes,
throwing on and off her ragged cloak.
The sun is tugged through the blue-black sky
in dandelion springs and nuclear autumns.
Twenty-six thousand turns and a further
two hundred and another ninety-seven.
Each turn an hour.
For each turn half of them are spent longing,
letting my eyes linger on the dazzle-dimpled
dancers that race in cotton skirts through the sky.
Watching them I wait. Wait for darkness
to descend again with
my wishing-giving friends.
Bring him back. Bring him back.
The rest of the turns of silver-silk sands
fall in silent ribbons, as I peer between
the baby hair weeds
and try to see through the English cloud
and ignore the orange glow of city life
and look up.
Look up, love.
Maybe we are looking at the same sky.