-The Fourth King-
The city lies dead still in the grey shadows
of dawn at his waking.
His boots await him at the smaller eastern gate.
He passes through and is met by morning’s light embrace.
He steps out into the avenue of beech trees
Beams of golden sunlight fall softly
on the level path before him.
A light pace, a firm gaze, determination,
lead him to the border
The landscape changes, making the path twist and turn,
climb and fall as it steadily moves forward.
He follows, the road is hard the sun hot in his face,
yet he follows
rejoicing in his labours, challenging
muscles and mind, body and spirit
Heedlessly unaware of the shadows
that he creates, that mark his going
At the noon hour he rests, nothing before him
and nothing behind him.
The dead quiet of nothing moving
In the silence of the forest is deepened
by the shrill cries of a lone magpie In the firs
The relentless sun beats on his back
He moves with a forceful step as if
to escape the bright harshness that pushes him on.
Dark, well defined shadows protrude from his being.
Distorted shapes confront his view, ever larger,
ever more twisted as he journeys on.
There is this quiet place, this twilight time,
a place and time of mercy,
when the soft sweet darkness approaches,
where light and shadow mingle,
where light becomes shadow and shadow becomes light.
He takes off his boots and in the dim light,
The gate into the garden’s fragrance appears.
Leaning back against the sun warmed wall
The fourth king looks into the soft darkness of night
and awaits the coming