Thursday, September 14, 2017

The Gathering

©  2017  Steve King
All rights reserved

He leaned so naturally,
bent to shadow by the moon.
He asked if I had a match.
‘I don’t smoke, myself,’ he said,
‘but I must look to my watch,
for the times are old.’

So soon, it gathers like a dream,
the waiting while his moon burns hot,
and all my world grows cold.

A poem for Joy Jones’ Friday 55


  1. Steve this is very illusive work, which of course, is the kind I like--it hints and promises and leads the imagination beyond the words. I particularly like 'bent to shadow by the moon..' and the sense of time itself being shadowy but certain in an unknowable sort of way...and a light that needs to burn. Thanks so much for contributing to a very kickass weekend-to-be. (The prompt will post at 1:00 am.)

  2. There is something about the tone of this piece, about the dialogue.. that makes me look into the shadow that is him... searching for the source of the cold...

    1. Thanks for stopping by, Magaly. My opinion is that someone is meeting Death on a street corner, but there are other valid interpretations, I'm sure. Sometimes I try to be sly and clever, but end up being obscure. This might be one of those times.

  3. Like Joy, I like the "bent to shadow by the moon" part best. You have set a mood here that promises a whole past and, at least for one of them, future colored by that past.

  4. You've set the mood well, Steve. Mysterious, foreboding and otherworldly.

  5. I think looking at the watch signals time is growing more precious as if a limit has been placed. There is still a feeling of warmth though breath itself is cold.