Her darkness beckons to me

From the distance of a winter night,

To walk upon ancient and unknown shores

Without the use of seeing eyes.

Her grace is cast on the moon,

Black hair glistens in the light,

And with the cold, harsh wind

A teardrop falls into my dream.

Ease by rock so wet and black,

Taste the salt upon her lips;

Keep those hard-found treasures:

The ice-cold stone becomes so thin.

Oh, I can see the beauty,

Or find warmth beneath the darkened land,

But will I ever know from what still pool

Came that pure water in her hand?

Copyright © Clayton Bye, 2009