(a trifle)

Slow light is respirating in my soul.
Slow, fragrant light. Like ancient tides
That, rising, touch the neck
Of a wyrd giant, wading in the moon,
And then recede to leave him glistening
With stars like barnacles upon his back.
Slow light that comforts mountains, glaciers, deeps;
The hidden animals of massive strength
Whose hind legs, placed on continents,
Support them as they paw the appled night.