Soul Labour

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Soul Labour

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #121

Is there a method to this sustained diminishment,
This season of shrivelling of human sense
Heightening deplorability of the long night
By the waning moon’s slow disappearance.

And yet I come to Thee tattered
Marshalling my wayward fallen parts,
These meagre holdings for Thee offered
By my heart’s fractured reverence.

What eclipse is upon me shielding
Thy musing lilt and Thy revealing light,
Where gone from silence Thy song
My sole mead sustaining from start?

I hew my way through this bodily abyss
To purchase by soul labour a fruit of Thy kiss.