He walked along the faint-lit hall

pondering each slow footfall:

was there meaning in the day,

in these soft steps, in this sway?



He paused then for a moment brief  

(the length of a dropping leaf)

to ask if  shadow and flame

were both halves of the one frame



that shaped as it played upon the air.

It was the match and flare

came the soul’s reply, the spark

and the glint, the folding dark.



He stopped, and then closed his eyes,

saw zero as sea and skies,

held close time’s flickering chains

felt the heart beat in his veins.

Warwick McFadyen