The Passing

A blood-red crescent

crowns the mountain top

silently stealing the night.

Silky-soft ether caresses

his face – ancient, leathered

and weathered by countless suns.

His closed eyes filter the new light

through almost translucent lids.

Withered arms remain outstretched

beseeching his spirit ancestors

to share Eternity with him.

The gentle breeze strengthens,

lifting and rummaging beneath

his cloak of aged buffalo hide

inquisitively fingering the

parchment skin stretched

drum tight over bones

as old as memory.

Motionless, he sits in trance

through many phases of the moon:

A shell from which all life

but breath has fled,

patiently awaiting

the Passing.

Suddenly and eagle soars,

its spirit whispering on the wind

a final answer to his chant.

© Grace Galton 29th July 2003