Where next? What follows night?
Through a mist I wander onward
Through a maze of lowering cloud
Not knowing if I’m right or wrong
Or where I am going
Trusting blind to the inner vision
Alive to the lonely dream alone
Where next? What could I write?
That any hear what I want to say
A rain of booklight is in me
A pouring of oil but against the grain
Let me tip it out, find my way not knowing
A torrent through any subject flows
Bending light in day it fits through all
Poem from a Sequence:
A Rain of Booklight
From, A Book is like a Sacred Isle:
“A Book about Books”
© Judith Evans Deverell, 2014
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