All in ciphers
         our stars and our destinies
the night havens
         in which we lie cocooned
before the day tolls
         once again

Grey frosty start
         but soon to be blue
the day will rise
         and we with it
wrapped in our hopes
         and in all our ambitions
eager to pursue
         the secular light
returning as evening falls
         to love’s sweet precinct
to sight and sound and soft
         welcoming flesh

Time is a translation
         a version of ourselves
never accurate
         because never complete
: time lives in the memory
         and in love it dies

John Lyons


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