At the foot of a glass-tower,
stood a house of straw,
a sign that said ‘come in’, on the little,
grass door; dry as a tinderbox, open as a soul,
it beseeched, ‘Come steal me away.’
‘Take my tomorrows, for your today, and rob me,
and ravage me,
a hundred more ways –
I need only ever,
to honour glass-grace, and know,
will look back.’
their broken promises
on my straw of black,
and that old tide of nothingness,
and bring me all your darkest moments of mistrust;
in the early light of a dawning day.
Pile them upon me, one by one,
and I will stand firm.
I will stand firm, I say.’
Then the wind tried to howl around the little,
straw-house, tried to burrow and draw
all unconscious demons
out into the open, to eat proverbial dust,
whilst the house, in silence,
wrapped a gift of trust, and offered it,
to the tower,
without another word spoken.
Tied with a bow; it glowed;
until the glass-tower turned molten,
consuming the straw-house, all flowing opaque.
back at them both;
was a strange new river,
of beautiful faith.