Late Afternoon
by P.H. Wise

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Late afternoon, and the sun
peeks through the bedroom window,
through blind-slits, the light looks
warmer than it feels
Bars of sunshine and shadow
drift across my face
as the breeze catches the blinds
gently rise, gently fall
the noise of distant freeways
floats upon the rocky hills
birds chirp outside the window
and the wind goes through the trees.

My heart soars –
The thrill of freedom, and the sense
Of being outdoors that makes the universe
An indoor thing – that godlike forest,
So far excelling ‘many trees;’
So much more awful, more divine -
Everything I ever loved
About everything I ever loved -
Or everything I ever called beautiful -
Hints, glimpses –
Ever and again rediscovered
But No sooner found than gone

Ah me! And what strange chance is this
That I should look upon a world so divided?
O unseeing sight, O unhearing eyes,
What sort of life can be had in this half-world?
And is the Promise of our Lord to come to naught?
Or is that distant sound the call
Of ‘Tuba mirum spargens sonum?’