By Richard Mather
in your eyes, the sun is dazzling white,
the wind shifts your scarf, blows through the gaps
of your coat.
for me, nothing shines or moves but the tall candles
swaying.
the song of the dead plays on, the music of ghosts
in the choir stalls. for you, it is not the dead that sing,
but angels of light hovering over the water,
the spray of white ocean on their wings
glistering.
in your eyes a reflection of the light in the window,
the same light that hits the broken glass
on the street below.
for me, the light is only light when it illuminates
something.
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