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Salmon Poetry

XIII That morning will come

Seamus Cashman

When the morning comes will it lie so distant, cold and
    hidden—like your eye to mine?
When the song is sung will it wait a call to stall the bone,
    marrow-full and sweet?

We have felt the night march on, ravishing the crevices of
    history, and tempting our resolve.
We hold our borderlands through taint and taunt of dark
    and day.

You and I could share a bed of sandy clay and red porous rock;
and though the wall is high the coin that spins will fall. 

Let morning’s melody rephrase the stormy beats, our tune
    become the athanor of dark
for when a die is cast between our distances, its roll will
    call the world to tilt
toward flags unfurled.

We know that dawn has gleaned its shine and that day
    waiting its share is near.
Here is a time to play beyond the shadows we have tented
    in the hills.

There is a gentleness in no, in words unsaid, in looks unseen. 
There is the ochre brilliance of a rising sun, and when we
    kiss again
a second birth at dawn …

That morning will come.

Copyright Seamus Cashman 2007

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