September Song

The gods have drained these skies
and punctured them with stars.
Their lights, though bright, mean
nothing at all, having nothing but histories
to prove, like dead men's eyes wandering.
And then the moon's whites
fingers themselves through windows,

illuminating nothing in particular,
this midnight, home, September.
I think of you often. Often
in the evening when the traffic stops
and the rain raps gentle on the window,
no sound but that sound echoing out,
then I think of you as you were:

vital, really, always that,
and someone, maybe, to warm to
without effort or reserve,
vivid as an ecstasy in dreams
that had no need of red and yellow pills.
Everything mattered, and in this world
you seemed to fit like the sun that lights

the morning's skies.
Yet, after all, I think, this world was just too
much for you, each day a fresh mistake
that saw the blackness form, and each morning
prayers for the evening's passing,
the one time never to be safe in
with its emptiness and its long moments.

Now there is nothing left
but this midnight and the failing stars
which have nothing to do
but recount names and memories
that stretch to God knows where,
that have a beginning, somewhere,
that have no ending, anywhere,

I alone, the room emptied, you gone
and this September song.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on his poems, John Cornwall will be glad to hear from you.