Blame not
the cast of shadows
on corners closed to light,
But flame the torch,
sconced,
awaiting willing hand.
Trip not,
in hesitation,
cursing blunderous steps,
But feel cracked pores, crevassed pointing,
thirsting
for faith touch.
Idle not
in disharmony’s speculation.
Rather, murmur
faint remembrances
Till refrain
makes glorious your voice.
Fear not
the underground passages
dependent on your darkness for existence.
Rather, shelter there,
acclimating
eyes to gloom’s recognisance of faint shafts.
scottishmomus 