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Gary Langford
The Cursing Time
Beyond the call of the new,
when hope comes to the fore,
the stage transforms green into dust.
What we all once took for granted
becomes soft fallow, and fractured,
in the softness of the evening sun.
In this period we regret all things -
the call is that desperate.
We see red eyes in the mirror.
We pray they don't belong to us.
They do.
For a time you were my cutting edge,
handle hand, or so I thought.
Now I cannot stop your march.
And I want to. I pray to,
until all I see is you.
The weather is beyond us.
We attempt to say we are born in water,
how we worship water each day,
then laugh in bitter wind.
It won't laugh with us
We look up to the sky in prayer,
even begging to God.
We murmur the incandescent,
no longer upset if our neighbours see us,
raising their eyebrows in relief.
We assumed it was ours,
no longer having to look beyond starts for space,
sucking air in.
Fire spreads around us,
becoming us. continuing to burn.
This is the cursing time.
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