. . . So in a Shapelesse Flame

Richard Outram

'...SO IN A SHAPELESSE FLAME',

        Iam made aware
        of slight things:
        a fine gold hair;
        tremor of wings
        within the air;
        a stone that sings:

        a blood-red stone
        containing light.
        Should a frail bone
        succumb I might
        endure, unknown,
        out of all sight,

        out of all mind:
        save that of One
        who proffers, blind,
        a black stone
        in an old wind
        on a dead sun.