There have been low moans,
blood struggles, snapped bones,
steel on steel in scuffles in the black.
Where the locust has fed,
chewed in shadows our bread
and our years, we can’t get them back.
We are sleepers laid low
in the frost and the snow,
cold source seized up like a rock –
to the deep halls of death
should you bring us our breath
sursum corda to the veins unlocked!
There comes no thrown fire
no blue hot wire
no splash of the rainbow on our sight,
no police escort,
no seraphic cohort,
no parade for the advent of the light,
but a little pin-prick
in the folds of the thick
heavy hanging ink curtain of the night.