An Abaude

I mark my journey
in the cold breath of darkness
that brushed past my cheek.
No more yielding then the dream
told by playful Puck
on a /midsummer Eve.

Climb now to the mountain top
each step measured not by the
tick and tock
of an old clock
But instead by the vanishing stars
and dawns grey cloke
drawn in the distance.

One sees the final death of night
as day breaks in the east,
in the shards of light scattered across the granite earth.
I have climbed my mountain top
to watch the earth give birth
to the reddened star.