Jason Morgan: ‘Aubade’ and ‘The cold wind’

Aubade

For one moment, death puts down its drum, and
Apollo blissfully lowers his head
of burning fire against the pillow to dream.

Throw off your sable mourning garments, and
ride the wind that swells the sails with its sound.
The stars are yours until dawn climbs the sky.

Jason Morgan

The cold wind

There is a cold breeze through the house tonight.
It haunts the rooms and rustles the old shades.
What does it want, this wind which moves like silk?
Has it come to search for my emptiness?

Sniffing through the corners of my shelter,
it continues frisking me for nothing.
Through my window, I see withered leaves fall.
“Silence can hide nothing”, the wind tells me.

But what can the wind say that is novel?
All the stories have been written in stone.
The wind cannot move them. And yet it stirs,
howling at me though I know it too well.

Even the air sings and complains to me.
Now it puffs the sails of ghostly curtains.
My old door is creaking on its hinges.
Though I’m lonely, the wind isn’t welcome.

Jason Morgan