Driving at Night

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.