You can see it existing


The magic of the sun in winter;
not so hot and bright -
not steeply arching overhead,
high and long through the sky
- but because of that,
finding a shining Arcady
otherwise untouched.
Slanting into the earth at dawn;
blessing the hearth,
where embers are still redolent
amongst a drift of ashes.
Glowing and flickering white on the wall,
as moving shadows tell of trees,
and call me out where light is
streaming between forest branches,
borne by prismatic air.
Then golden, warm and steady,
when I didn’t expect it to be
there in my kitchen - a lover
bringing the berried evergreen
- when I thought that flowers would not grow
from these books.

They are not the obvious lies
that need this work of exposure.