Ben Power

Harvestmen

They slip their being into conscious sleep,
Twitching our blurred breath from timeless wilting.
Waver of wings cascading down the deep
Of the cool night glass. They patter, tilting
Their fragility through the pale portals
And into space. Dripped from reality.
Lilies on the dream pond. Scattering seeds
Of crystal sun, they lend us light. Mortal
And twisting rage, hammered hands clutch debris,
Drift at the dawn of ending. Gathered weeds
Crushed under ghosts, chewing stains. The river
Mud plucks out shine. It is no longer ours.
This spluttered current spits out a shiver
Channelled down westward, drowning out the stars.

Hymn
There is rain in my father’s touch. Under
The tapestries of sweat, to the flocking
Of steel words, I bend, and breathe his thunder.

He reads from the night, hearing its knocking
In another name, and knows the measure
Of his mind is growing old. Still, locking

That window, patching up the floor, pleasure
Is re-wrought. Time can only be discussed
To the dribbling of taps, our treasures

Melted down to mend a pipe. Wiping dust
Off those shelves, his finished hands are as stones
Skimming their distant sea. We readjust,

Wash our faces through the frost, strike new bones
On kindling, but the spark is not as strong.
Even if he could, he would not atone

For this parody-passion played too long.
I know that one day soon he will be gone.