In a lento of dreams,
We drove past abandoned hulk of cathedrals.
You closed your eyes as the cars came too close.
There was a scent of boswellia, camphor and cassia.
Under stained-glass skies –
Chalices of light spilled through autumn larch,
And in the rear-view mirror,
The storm advanced in passacaglias of darkening birdsong.
It was a lento of dreams.
It was the scent of myrrh.
It was a recalled image that was yet to arrive.
On the windshield,
Stars swirled into rain,
And we drove into a country of night
Under collapsing waveform of falling leaves.
I would have stayed with you,
But there would have been no point.