Al-Shira bright above, so still, and still it moves.
Fixed in the firmament, in place until it moves.
A star-flecked sky in winter, cold above the stream.
Al-Shira is reflected in the rill. It moves.
The sky wheel cycles, grinding fine the centuries.
My little life’s ground on it as the mill it moves.
I longed for you, Al-Shira, when the skies were cold.
The coldest nights I’ve known, but now the chill it moves.
I sought to end my longing, wracked and desolate.
Take up the bow, loose arrows toward the kill: it moves.
Our road, Al-Shira, climbed into the winter sky.
The heights we won, and now our path downhill it moves.
The sky burst open. My heart fell upon the earth.
Run to it now, and claim it if you will. It moves.
Posted by: Chris Clarke
Categories:
Poetry
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