Late Afternoon
by P.H. Wise

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Late afternoon, and the sun
Peeks through my 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 rising, gently falling, harshly rattling.
The rumble of distant freeways
O’ershadows the rocky hills
Birds chirp their songs
Outside my blinded window
And wind rustles 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;’
More awful, more divine -
All I loved of all I loved -
And I e’er called beautiful -
Hints, glimpses - sounds
Ever and again rediscovered
But No sooner found than gone
No sooner heard than past

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?’