“He is not here,” they said.
They might have said to one
Who see the brutal clouds of ice
That summer is no more.
Even as I push the heavy doors
I was aware
For all the fullness of your grace retracted
Ached in the fingers of the bitter air.
That warm and light are cruel fires
Is truth of little value to the star
Which falls burned out and leaden
From the sky.
So warm and light
Are dark and cold to me –
The structures of the water I must tread
And plumb, like greedy sailors
Who, for the touch of gold
Dive through careless seas for treasures lost
Who surface stunned and old
To curse the empty chests they dreamed upon.