2 Prospero

Sending chimeras to the dull, humiliation
to the hapless, the open wound of grief
to blooded hands at rest inside white gloves …
Revenge has waited and withered into these
strange blossoms: moans, heartcries, spleen —
an island echoing with wingbeats of raw pain.
Now forgiveness flows, an evening tide
bathing each heartwound in stillness …
In this last twilight, a conjurer farewells
the buried sun, with palms cupped like
a chalice welcomes patience, peace — ancient
spirits sent from afar to nestle and sing;
new familiars who, with rustle and murmur
of wings, will haunt the silent tree.