When the morning comes will it lie so distant, cold and
hidden—like your eye to mine?
When the song is sung will it wait a call to stall the bone,
marrow-full and sweet?
We have felt the night march on, ravishing the crevices of
history, and tempting our resolve.
We hold our borderlands through taint and taunt of dark
and day.
You and I could share a bed of sandy clay and red porous rock;
and though the wall is high the coin that spins will fall. 
Let morning’s melody rephrase the stormy beats, our tune
become the athanor of dark
for when a die is cast between our distances, its roll will
call the world to tilt
toward flags unfurled.
We know that dawn has gleaned its shine and that day
waiting its share is near.
Here is a time to play beyond the shadows we have tented
in the hills.
There is a gentleness in no, in words unsaid, in looks unseen. 
There is the ochre brilliance of a rising sun, and when we
kiss again
a second birth at dawn …
That morning will come.
Copyright Seamus Cashman 2007
