The Roar.

Un-noticed when it came to stay,
Unheard, it never went away.
It mapped my course, until the day
It stopped.

No light could penetrate the roar,
No access, window, screen, or door,
It made all less, by being more,
So small.

Its heat that never comfort gave,
Dark peace, the silence of the grave,
Where anger substitutes for brave,
So cold.

And lastly, when it thought me dead,
Stole from that lodge inside my head,
And morning’s balm sighed in its stead,
Dear God.

Vast silence stole on deafening wing,
Through silvered fold and crystal ring,
I really heard the stillness sing,
It sang.

Were mornings burnished quite this bright?
Or weightless leavened quite so light?
Who sees afresh this reborn sight?
It’s me.

Chris Wilson White.