Rock-face slopes
moon and sun, each as pale as the other
at this hour of full morning

moon beside sun, at an arm’s reach
the sky aflame with their forbidden passion
sung in timeless magic charms

rock as high as the sky
and the Milky Way dividing the heavens
– between them the fragrance
of the late blackberry hedges

In this place the simplest of words have sometimes
brought back from their road without return
those too weak at life’s beginning
those too frail
because they’ve lived so long

How often have you climbed the mountain,
scribe?
How often have you done proper duty
To your truest calling?