The Myth of Transfiguration

On the edge
of a rain-tinged Monday

when the day
and days
stretch across the desert
of consciousness,

a long dead car splutters
and scatters
a handful of starlings.

And the morning air
is bitter with the taste
of breezeblock
and broken glass.

Paddy rattles the bones
of his empty bowl,
as Prussian blue raindrops
trace the window frames.

Low cloud gathers on the hills
where I hoped God lived.

And I think of October
when the north star
filled the room,

and touched your face
with what seemed like purity.

A glimmer of divinity,
of Isis and Miriam
and The Absolute.

And I rise and
clothe myself
in the colourless bindings
of who I am.