We walk a steep and slippery way.
Mixing moods in synaesthesia’s way,
It seems as if I am a chorus, in a play.

We feel by measures, hidden from the eye,
Time is borrowed, blue - days wasted,
Passing by under a steeply scattered sky.

Winter seeps me into my recesses of sleep, my soul flies 
Into the grist of an art unborrowed from time and tide;
I learn by repeated going, where I have to go, deep inside.

Dark holds imagination in thrall and mere fear allays
The terror that can paralyse the mind, close up the eye;
I wake to sleep, sometimes take my waking home, with me.

Some seek with all their senses flittered, stripped away
Others watch as the skies fade into kipper-grey
Into an ever-changing flexing-melding of night and day. 

Shaking off this stultifying edifice of days, love falls calmly away,
As the wise woman weeps, she takes her waking slow;

Mingling my prayers with a plethora born solely of the whiteness of snow

I recall the flowering meadows of summer, on one single May day, long ago.