My stars tonight are punctuated by people –

Scattered, tarnished, ever-distant jewels of present, past and future,

Hanging up there in the giant, curving  heavens like longing eyes-

Lost friends, the known, the Dead, the Great and all that’s greater –

The feeling of our infinite, infinitely broken, utterly minute connections.

To see a clear and lovely sky of stars though

Is always like a gift – renewed surprise,

A memory of purity, idealism, brave adventures

And a hope.  A map of wonder, picked out by our little questions,

And our endless namings too, and all our needs for definition:

Orion’s belt, The Bear, that mighty Plough,

Who’s giant furrow hangs above our understanding, just like  Time and History.

Those friendly, knowable names, in all our search for clear identity – the Map:

Would I were steadfast as thou art?

And yet the stars, like you and I, or love, are something else –

A burning doorway to the fire, the infinite, and death, always beyond our touch,

Hung in the ceaseless heavens like mighty rivers, twinkling repeatedly at our shames –

Our sad betrayals, our pettiness and pride.

Maybe that’s what the sky is,

And all those stars, and all their endless heavens too;

A call at every moment, when we look,

Like icy water thrills the waking the body ,

To be alive, to know and try to live again,

With every strange, familiar, mapped-out revolution of the Earth and Sun and Moon –

Before our special star goes out. The repetition of all that astonishing, icy,

Violent, hopeless grandeur of  Everything.



DCD Camaiore December 2017

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