Each white flake
Is a gap between words
Silences layering over sound.

As the gaps extend
White

Someone threw the sun so high
It hung above impossibly long

The weeds climbed on each other’s

Samhain comes
Longer night
Lowered sun
Moon runs high

Birds still sing
Leaves drift

Relentless optimism
A renewable resource
So persistant as to irritate
When bringing a bad mood

These wanderings through half-known roads and lanes
Raise expectations of some old

We always knew
That tales are spun
After hours and days
Of wool-gathering,
Wandering here and