dash

Aubade

The wind is blowing dry the wood
we’ll burn upon the fire tonight
and out at sea, each fishing boat
is glowing like a candle light.
But I cannot sleep, and cannot calm
this inner storm, since there’s no balm
for growing old, and going out.
I don’t believe ‘the soul takes flight’:
I’ve never managed more than doubt
to keep any kind of hope afloat;
I cannot pray, and if I could
put aside my compass-less selfhood

a deeper voice would mock, and list
deathbed conversions of the past
which don’t convince, being surely mere
attempts to hedge bets at the last,
or worse – plain cowardice. Quite so,
yet I know there’s much I’ll never know
and it’s true the longer I’m alive
the more mysterious the vast
stretch of time and space, while I’ve
a sense of wonder at being here
however briefly, still at least
able to ask why I exist.

You’re sleeping. Good. May your dreams be
tranquil illusions, not the dark
turmoil which woke me. I’ll try to read
till another winter day embarks
and the distant boats are back in port
while the falling wind and dawn support
a sense of fresh beginning, though
short-lived – I can’t ignore the stark
consciousness there’ll soon be no
new voyage to come, but also indeed
no mooring where, incredibly,

sunset and sunrise would blaze as one for me.

Tom Vaughan

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan  
would be pleased to hear them.

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