Like a mirror

Like a mirror
on a February night,
our lives are spread
across the soldier's tomb,
where the owl watches
with every twig unbent
and every branch straightened.

A single star
in the sky has no need
for the fires of the earth,
that are too distant
too faint, and all too crude.

A red light from the south
now crosses our resting place,
and rouses the owl
that, like a peafowl,
displays a momentary splendour, and
with a soft flick
disappears into the growing light.

So the long-dead soldier --
his firm grip coming back to life,
his stony body turning to flesh,
and his broken sword
swirling into one --
returns to reclaim his refuge,
to shatter our peace;
the light is darkness.

The twig falls,
and the branch snaps
under the weight
of the risen soldier, who
rekindles the flame
that overshadows all,
and ushers in the dark.

So falls the single star,
that loses its light to the
darkness,
and, by the cloud, dissipates,
until its glory is all but
a memory.