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FIREHAIR AT
SUNSET
Firehair steps out to
the balcony
at the end of the
cliff-carved hall
takes down her
backpack flyer
from its hook on
the granite wall
far past the city's
western edge
the daystar sinks
gold-red
her hair is a coil
of copper
aflame on her high
proud head
her oiled limbs are rose
in the sunset
her leathers glisten
black
her sure hands strap the
flyer
to arms shoulders and
back
she crouches poised on
the parapet
looks up a split second
springs
plummets
and tugs on the
shoulder cord
that opens translucent
wings
they spread and beat in the
updraft
above the grid of light
the city's jeweled reflection
of the deepening blue-black
night
and she closes her windmask
visor
and quicksilver touches her
hair
below her the falling horizon
above her the calling stars
Copyright © Eric Layman 29
August 1997
THE DREAM OF THE YEARS
I dreamed I stood in the middle
of a field,
with friends and kin
all round;
and every year was once about
the sun,
with one or two cut
down.
In the far heart of heaven, the
Three spin and weave,
and they cut and
they tie each strand.
One sits at the wheel, and
another at the loom,
and the third has
shears in her hand.
I dreamed I stood in the middle
of a field,
with friends and kin
all round;
and the summer or the winter
was half of the way,
with one or two cut
down.
And the sky in summer was a
bell of brass
that the hammers of
the sun made ring;
and the winter sky was a
shivering glass,
that the whips of
the wind made sing.
I dreamed I stood in the middle
of a field,
with friends and kin
all round;
and every season was a quarter
of the way,
with one or two cut
down.
And the spring sang green, and
the summer laughed gold,
and the fall was a
blood-red keening;
and the wind's white dirge, and
the blue-black cold,
must yield to the
rising green again.
Like a stand of grain in a
field of fall,
with every stalk cut
down,
now this one dies, and the next
will rise;
and the world swings
round and round.
I woke from my dream, and the
Three spin and weave,
and they run each
bright strand through.
I'll ask not the time of the
closing of the shears;
but I'll see that my
thread runs true.
Copyright © Eric Layman, 2002
published in chapbook The Brightest Fire
Aeolus House, Toronto 2005
THE TECHNICIAN
This hand, because decay
is slow but pitiless,
applies the oilcan to the
grudging wheel;
force-feeds the flame
that lamps the midnight cities;
defends from rust and wear the
sentient steel.
The eye is clear and
cool, that guides the hand;
the mind behind the senses,
sharp, aware
the laws of physics need
no human friend,
though all mind's work lives
only through hand's care.
This hand is true as oil,
flame, steel and stone;
for pride and gain, it wages
war on damp and dust.
Praise is embarrassing,
best left alone:
good soldiers hide their
feelings. Facts we trust;
all other coin is
foreign. Talk is cheap;
and matter moves, though
reason sometimes sleep.
(c) Eric Layman 1986
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