Robert Griffith

Saint Columba Contemplates the Daughter He Never Had

 

I dream of blue orchards at dusk
And dream, too, of walking there with you,
Your small hand in mine, the path's white dust
A pall upon our feet. The dew

Begins to fall, made silver by
An ancient moon that lifts from the trees
To scrub clean both shingle and sky.
We stroll in the cool and take our ease.

We talk about the birds asleep
In nest and bower; about the night
That circles, closes in; about the deep
That swallows all our meager light.

Your voice is starlight in the dark,
And I can't help but think God's blind
And dumb. He doesn't know this spark,
This Eden, this garden in the mind.