Before the Light Finds Me

I remember the dark as it used to be—

thick, kind, filled with the hush of leaves.

Then came the hum beneath the hill,

and the light—

a pale, unblinking eye.

It caught me once between breaths,

a circle of gold too bright to name.

I thought it a moon that had come down

to ask what we’d done with the stars.

Its glow hums of iron and promise,

of hands that shape the soil to their will.

I’ve seen the trees bow, one by one,

to its slow procession of dust and tar,

I’ve smelt rain turned to oil,

heard foxes whisper new prayers.

They call it progress, I think—

that hunger which never sleeps,

that lantern which burns to see

what should have stayed unseen.

It watches me now, still and patient.

I wonder if it knows my name,

if it ever dreams of the forest

or the soft press of moss underfoot.

Good evening, lost traveller—

bright, wandering and curious.

Welcome to our wood.

I bid it greeting as I go through the windshield.