The Foyle Flows Softly When She Sings Her Song Poem by Kevin Kiely

The memorial sky: invasive clouds are too near and hyphenate
the irises like cat's eyes entranced: motorways are stairs and corridors
in scale, convoys of traffic are so much glass, metal and plastic
and in each a phantom ghostly driver plays out the sonata
of speed and distances

The tattered arras of clouds is carved against blue
carvings of clouds in Alpine grey, Himalayan silver
the dome of the sky leaks pewter, lead, burnt brass
and the sacred sun occluded.

Clouds have continental faces crumbling coastal contours
jaw-lines that merge into the landmass of sky. For only sunlight
sets fire to despair. Horizon swells beyond mountains
into the arches of the sky and the world is in the sky
in rivers turning gold

The sun fort blazes firelight, frames bridges and the clouds
of life beyond life, the golden bowl of her life flowing
flowering beams brightening, brightening, magnifying
all that is seen and unseen as she walks to the railing

The zenith which she may not feel up to but reaches
with one hand. A thread of her golden hair curves
on her ebony sleeve. A blonde strand of river
a vein of water through the city. I climb through
myself to ledges that are too high, fearful
while only through her reaching the gladiola sky