Doctrine

Unanswered, the call, mindful of epochs
Passed up the passage of the real;
Ceremonially the language of hours
Plods still through its empty turns.

The caller is the horseman,
Animal whose labor grounds
A pardon’s sun, unearthing
The profound, the beautiful
Of flapping blue.

Tied into that ribbon’s seal,
Executed on the way, the message
Speeds through the conquest
Of its own day, pinning all delay
Upon the stalwart heights,

Only to lengthen in the shadows,
Whose deepening dampens the night.