The sickness at the heart

of these fair days
darkens my irises,
and all the passing thoughts
like clouds across the sun
can dim my being
until I struggle from the weight
of darkness pressing -
my very blood is distraught
and slides uneasily
through its ducts,
the bodily connections
rattle in their cage, and fret
as the heart's beat, misses, misses,
then continues steadily.

And the golden light of summer
I cower from -
preferring the yew's shadow
cool and hollow -
for its stridency celebrates
fair things and joy,
all the golden coins of which
have slipped out of my hand.

And so I count the hours, the days,
in shade
and hope that I can
raise my eyes and see the sky again
all blue, the summer sun
all gold, be bold and full of life's
urgency rushing the veins,
all weight dispersing
like a brooding cloud blown inland
like a black sky cleansed 
by rising wind and rain.

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