Monday, October 25, 2004


My book of days you are,
the pages of my life,
limned in leaf of gold
and lapis lazuli.

In you, I'll read my matins,
my prayers at none and vespers.
In you, my sun shall rise;
you'll be my evening star.

My book of days you are,
my comings and my goings,
the planting and the harvest,
each sorrow, every joy.

And all the seasons pass,
I'll read anew the year;
my book you are until
I close my eyes and sleep.

Stephen Brooke ©2004

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