wheat field

In the Sun’s Grace

As I write this my city lies in night
And over me hangs the dark sky
Empty but for the gentle moon
And the tentative light of ancient stars.

Far to the east the first rays of the rising sun
Are penetrating to the centre
Of a solemn ring of huge grey stones
Standing on a barren plain.

And east again the morning sun
Is shining over a desert
Over a massive cube draped in black around which
Ecstatic pilgrims circle seven times.

The sun at noon is sitting in the centre of the sky
Over the warm waters of a bay full of hundreds
Of small flowerpot islands
Through which fishing boats with brown sails navigate.

The afternoon sun is filtering into the dense hum
Of a jungle and for an instant one ray illuminates
Clinging to a tree an orchid
Arrogant in beauty and fragility.

And the last rays of the setting sun are turning to copper
A white bird flying with languid beats of its long wings
To the next landfall
Over a thousand miles of ocean wave.

These things all lie in the sun’s grace
A garland around a globe that spins me once again
Out of the night towards this brilliance,
This day that awaits me.