Beneath the shifting skies where I once walked,
bloodwine and burning light bring sober sight.
If you go, maybe you’ll leave, and you’ll talk
like me, with holy limp and heart alight.
Those early endless days will mend your bones
just in time to see pressure’s promise kept:
big yellow tears landing on leprous road,
like my own sore path, softer now to tread.
Face the ceaseless dark like oaks by the pond –
learn to long for light. And when breaking clouds
turn berries red with martyr’s blood, press on
to the hearth where all the saints sing out,
“Come warm your heart, and when your clothing dries,
we’ll walk again beneath the shifting skies.”
