Stars.

As I looked out of my window on the world
The stars were glinting on the shoulders of the hills,
All was quiet in space, at least in this mute part of the galaxy.
Sleep was no nearer than the bright star on the horizon,
Balancing on the outline of the trees like a lantern.

Now I’m in the wood sat among the frozen silence,
The snow is crisp and white, stardust, coating all things
With the coldness and dispassionate touch of space.
The winter thrushes are perched in the trees,
Their cries are harsh and they talk of the north.

There is relief here in the cold, no pain,
No visions of destruction, no death by bombing,
No ranting and raving about religion, no
Disputes about who has the right to own God:
No destruction or murder in his name.

As my mind deserts my body, like my breath,
White and steaming, I see the owl in the tree,
His dark beads penetrating my very essence:
Has he come for me? To take me across
The dark river, to guide me through the void?

It is then I yearn for the stars, cold and distant,
And the northern star bright with friendship,
Glowing like a beacon of hope in a sea of shadows,
The lighthouse keeper of my soul, mapping
My intensions with familiar certainty.