Darklight

I am running hard
through a winter's air,
scraping the coal-walls,
houses of dead bricks
and grandparents' meals.

I have forgotten the dusk;
the embers behind me are a tangle
of your hair, an ink
that chases my thoughts
on the page
grasping for the
next
word...

You were my dawn,
my virgin page.

Now I am night,
and to this darkness pray.
It is the candle of these words
that lights the air,
stroking ears, like
my grandparents' fire
on a distant winter's day.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.