The heavy sleep that hangs on the lids
of the front row hangs
on you, hoar frost
of years, breath gone cold.

Time for change. New robes,
raiment for a journey
and a steep climb.
Middle-aged as you trudge away,
swear to return young
or not at all.

With awe, then,
approach the grey, circled
rocks, remove
your bony, black sandles
and coax flame
from crackling
earth-strewn sticks.

Winds play in the hollows,
pipe or moan through caves.
Listen. Your hair blanching,
eyes blind but coal-bright
through stirring smoke,
the sparkle and snap
of wind-teased flame.

When darkness seeps
into all this immense sky
hoarse voices whisper,
or dreams, netted in the tangle
of your wild, white hair.