when light whispers (for JC)

An English day I'll presume has moods
returning almost moribund. The morning
might rain and the evening slant to hearth.
Those walking along streets of London --
see how noon light is weary, not adhering
around the edges of their moving forms?

But where the meadow grass is quiet,
where birds twitter eccentric branches,
one walks slowly in her humble aura,
gathering on her brow the sun's grace.

And maybe she'll stroll a fenced lane
in rapt possession of unusual moments.

Some forms hold the whisperings
of old light's renewed hymns of time.
A brow that gleams yesterday's blurring
into tomorrow's poems of waiting myths.

Long ago somewhere, maybe a vision,
I've heard this glowing thoughtful aura.
As if a childhood echo of a lost friend
or the awed going into a cathedral
where breathing is almost prayer.


~ TB, 2013