The land is like a lullaby, where echoes lilt and leap
Its cadaver of days gone by slumbers within its sweep
Yon sky is like a highway where the feet of dreamers tread
While wandering the down reaches of nature’s feather-bed
The rock me, rock me rhythm of time's clock gathers its prey
While Winter’s beneficiary waits white whiles away
When it comes to the woo of dusk there is no hand-me-down
Ah, white of winter’s moonlit night, wouldst thou could
weave a gown
For what fabric is finer than white winter’s hinterland?
It shimmers like a skein of satin flung from heaven’s
hand
And on the hills that gently spill up to blue lowered bar
The stars like silver buttons bloom on fathoms from afar
Now almost-night succumbs to that which no one can hold back
Above the earth the girth of Orion dazzles velvet black
Dusk's deepening tugs heart-strings, such a soulful serenade
Touches and strums the darkness; one more Nevermore is made
And onlookers soft-caught between the future and the past
Grasp at the gossamer of what remains and what is cast
© Janet Martin
I have heard Time's Preacher thunder
in the still of dusk...
