Sunday, 13 January 2013

A Sky-Scraper and a Straw-House


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,
that strength
will look back.’

‘Lay down
their broken promises
on my straw of black,
and yellow,
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.
And there,
softly staring,
back at them both;
was a strange new river,
of beautiful faith.

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