The clock has become a slow pulse,
yet days are somehow shorter
as dusk bleeds from the firmament.
The north wind arrives as a prophet
bringing stories of endings,
laying the groundwork for miracles.
Eons ago, light left a distant star
to touch my face on this night
like a loved one’s withered hand.
Published in Open Arts Forum on .
Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.
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