POET: THE MAKER.
Stone-still in the ancient stone tower
he shaped the poem, word after word
that stillness offered; night heard
the candle sputter in that single hour.
The verse was still, but mind knew no peace
toiling in cold fury until the vision came,
made pale the narrow candle flame
like fitful lightning on the narrow glass.
Stands finally this vessel of his thought,
stillness wrought out of clay's simplicity;
glittering within, the eye may see
cool water to refresh our time of drought.
Clear, under the clear light of day,
the spirit rests upon the shape of clay.
Copyright © Bernard Gilhooly - All Rights Reserved