I dream for the silent places of truth,
the places of Wulf Young or Joseph Smith.
I miss Young’s sea breeze that bites at the tooth;
for trees that quiet the world, I wish.
I hope for voices to ebb away
and the motors o’erhead to leave this place.
I desire to keep the world at bay,
but without such truth, I have this space.
I have this rickety back patio
with a rusted brazier for a centrepiece,
the sight of industrious workers below
and a constant suburbia with its own special peace.
The noise never ends, never lulls on this hill,
but something here lies that holds my heart still.

© Blake Leitch November 3, 2016

It is at my side,
always,
the place the light doesn’t reach,
at least for now.
It is dark
and simple
and unremovable;
not the plaything of Peter Pan,
but the worst of times.
It is not sewn on to be hewn off,
it is an intrinsic part of the whole.
Sometimes it is silent
and small,
a cirrus cloud on a summer’s day.
Sometimes not,
sometimes that towering cumulonimbus
that silences the sun’s rays.
It is at my side,
always,
always.
It is at my side tonight.

© Blake Leitch October 27, 2016

I’ve written this poem before,
written of the newness of new sun
and the enlivening words of the dead.
Chaos is what I once thought,
once believed,
but everything returns to where it begins,
finds home where it belongs.
I’ve written this poem before
and so have a dozen dozen others,
those enlivening words of the dead.

© Blake Leitch October 13, 2016

At a certain hour
before rest is yours,
aquamarine and forget-me-not
become nothing more than blue.
Royal, scarlet, ruby;
they’re all reds.
And lemon and gold,
just yellows.
Eyes and heart become
pieces of the whole of you,
and shades of love disappear
at a certain hour
before rest is yours.

© Blake Leitch June 3, 2016