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You know in truth that the light when it comes,

Is old and used from age old suns,

It shows only that which is done and passed,

Sparking reflection of sights surpassed.

Aged sparks watched close though dim,

Faintly fairy-like, near still,

Pin-poignient signs which force the search,

For what is there, passed but not emerged.

Constant pulse echoing signs of life,

Confirmed hopes or fears of strife,

Away beyond our lives mere span,

It comes clean and fresh, awashing man.

Eager, hopeful we toil and wait,

Ending each day, and still if late,

We hold and savour every hope,

And watch the stars for tomorrow.

© Martin Whitthread. November 1988