a poem

In the turning of the Earth,
the turning of my head over my shoulder
life hangs on gossamer threads,
I shed my little collections now
turning to the front gate and where it leads
the tender tugging at my sleeve, as I turn to wave
farewell friend, turning home into a cell,
it is not well to linger too long in that sweet smoke,
turning aside the dogmas now, hoping in the promise of light
turning night into day, turning to smile at her face
threads can fall into place, turning time into trust of self,
the last bastion falls, gate opens, turning to face the light.

Chris
Adelaide 2025