You sleep the deep of angels, in folded wings as closed as silence.
You lie beside me, separated by the stillness of oceans.
Who the lion and who the lamb?
Dark outside, a dark wind blowing, gasping for breath in ice as hard as loss.
The night cries silently, sobs so cold to cut the stone.
Tree in silhouette, black against the blackness, branches straining beyond breaking,
Yet will not break despite my plea.

I reach, stretching in the void, close, and close again, yet lost beyond horizons,
The glass white fire icing through the stone.
Shall we pretend, again, that stillness is desire, the silence words of hunger?
The stillness breaks its secret, unfolds all.

A sudden gust and a touch, so gentle as to barely sigh through muted glass,
And yet we know the tree’s alive, the branches move, the glass is scratched.
Still, you shall not hear it in your sleep, it shall not breach your dream of dreams.
I scratch the glass, but only I can hear.
The silent scream echoes only in my head, scratches again and again as winds rise
To move the trees, the earth, the planet…but still, you shall not wake.
I think, perhaps, your dream is yours, and yours alone, and I shall not break the glass
Despite the storm that rages in my night.

If I could I would still the storm inside my chest, hush the wind to silence,
Caress the tears that streak the window, not know the stillness in your soul.

In the night the lion prowls, my lion, my hunger, my predation.
It was not meant to be unleashed, uncaged, set free to roam.
Now, it is trapped in its need, eyes burning, senses quickened, claws unsheathed
While you sleep beside me, and never hear the scratching in the storm.
Again, again the glass is stroked, caressed, whispered softly and loved too tenderly to break
Despite the yearning, as small and insignificant as life itself.
The lion watches, claws sharp and teeth bared.

If I could I would still the wind, let the tree revert to statue set large against the sky
And yet I must scratch, and scratch, and scratch again,
While you sleep.

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Mark Ashby is an English man who finally retired to Christchurch, England, a place that he loves. At last, he has time and head space to think about his poetry. He has volunteered as a Companion at Hospices for some years now, and reflections on this privilege informs much of his recent writing.

Photo: Tomas Tuma