The night is deadly quiet,
still as a dead man’s breath:
life teeters on the empty edge,
and those of us who live in dark places
become invisible, 
even when the light returns

In times past the twisted paths,
the blind cliff edges and wrong turns
have filled our dreams:
now we search our faded memories
and find nothing but flowers,
a house on an island, a view of the sea

I muse on all your deeds,
I consider the works of your hands