modern poetry

rocked in the cradle of the deep
tripping up, falling down
full of tears
a look is but a ray
i reside at table mountain
if i were very sure
we break the glass whose sacred wine
i go my way complacently
it tells of good old times
day is done
in an old chamber softly lit
earth travails
soft as the bed in the earth
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon