A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
There is nothing to be seen in the sky:
white, an unpainted canvas, it keeps its secrets to itself.
Notice, though, the wind’s fierceness,
the waves already crashing upon the rocks
at the foot of the lighthouse.
Come night, we will watch the light’s beams
disappear into darkness, we will hear the gathering howl.
Our skin tingles already, presaging,
heaviness brewing in the air imprinting itself upon us.
The children, whimpering, feel it too.
It’s in the air they breathe, an undefined agitation
making them restless, their sleep troubled.
They raise their voices against it,
against each other, the evaporated calm.
Every semblance of the lives we have led is about to vanish.
Forces too strong to counter have propelled us here,
here, where the hungry mouth of the unknown awaits,
here, where the blustering winds of whim and chance
surround us, here, at the storm’s dark edge
where we invoke hope, where we pray for mercy
in an unmerciful world.
Copyright 2018 David Ades