Sat here and waiting; an emptiness is all.

Watching the candles cold-burning flame, mourning

the passing of time. Words, veiled

 in silence (silence and words are one)

I expect a dove to descend.


Outside the clouds, low clouds

a hanging freedom. Still and free

as a knowing mind –


“but night will drown you

and your sky. No witnesses.”


I pick up a book, and read it

slowly. All this is far away, and still

it is. All time is my time and I feel

the pull of it. The word; these words –

the word and world of it.


I too am written, writing you my life.

My life I am writing, and being written by.


The street is silent.


But then the train. The train

chokes on its own echo

as it crosses the bridge. The wheels

make conversation with the broken air –


the sky replies

releasing the dove.


 Malcolm Evison


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