Kingdoms of Light

For several months,
a dry channel coursed
its dry mouth
through a sweep of
unknown south-west sussex,
cracked and crusted crests
curving under bridges,
through sluices,
no water to whet the thirst
of the cinder-dry reeds.

But then all of a sudden
a spring welled up
from the ground:
fonted up, as if
into the hands of God,
pure water filled the channel,
steadily bursting
to an eary-low
conch shell rush.

I realise now
that I have been marking
my own life alongside it.
I have been waiting
for wetness, movement,
to ride it.

And I have marked
my life
by the epicycles
of the planets,
and the slow nocturnal
cycling of the stars
as they careen,
as they move closer
and farther away;
as the Earth
adjusts its tilt.

Polaris moves steadily off course,
the constellations crack
like a ripe pomegranate
or the fruit of love.

Sometimes the beauty
is just too much
and I wish for it
to take me.

But no:
there is far too much,
far too much here
for our palms to see
and I fear the worst -
hope we all see
the writing on the wall
before the finger of Babylon
points into the dark inside us
and our Kingdoms of Light fall.