Sometimes when alone we
speak to the night air
It’s like praying as only
silence it seems
is spoken back to us
But night has its own language
with words behind
its deep hush
They come up to us
from our own depths
And the words
are not our own
There’s silence over silence
and an ancient road
slowly occurs to us
under waves of bluish fog
We begin to know long-dead
whisperers from
the deep end of time
They are us and we are them
We find between us
a common grief
and without knowing it
we are shepherded
by father dark
down the old road
