Today I’m reading a poem written by Rob MacWolf, who has actually once been struck by lightning. 

Cold clouds coiling around the pregnant moon.

Night is calling to me. It is rising. It is soon.

Secret scents nocturnal up are swelling, and above

The moon rolls like a mirror of the face of her I love.

I will not go outside tonight, will nor unbar the door.

Much as I love the moon above I love my pillow more.

Dusk depths deepen, but my quilt is just as deep.

Tonight will I lie warm beneath the secret seal of sleep.

Long yards yearning as the night wears on:

A room becomes a furlong after the light is gone.

Strong ways winding on familiar hills

All still to be discovered. When the fire chills

The ashes seem the silver streak across the open plain

When green is gone and blue is gone and black and white remain.

Sweet grass sweating out a liquid cold.

Close clothes fretting, but my will will hold.

Though out upon the mountains I have gone questing oft,

My eyes are very weary and my bed is very soft.

The midnight wind is bracing as a wine of molten red:

I have no need of either. I am already in bed.

Silence sits as even as summer sifted sand,

Peace, forgetfulness, and bliss are all within my hand,

When drifts a wandering whistle across the fluid night,

Its tone is very heavy, its voice is very light.

It carries, calls, and choruses from engine cloud to me.

It rings the glassy silver rails that lead down to the sea.

It howls and harmonizes with the songs of yesterday

That also echoed off the moon. And sleep is far away.

The train is gone, the whistle fades. She will have heard it too.

I am already doing it: I know what I must do.

Tall trees rustling as I unlock the door

Where every night I thrill to think I may return no more.

Wild wind whispers of the wildest paths we trod

Where in moonshadows darkly we may see the face of God.

Brisk breeze bracing on my heavy hanging tongue.

Sward is soft between my toes, the blades are new and young.

Scant breath skitters across my shivering skin.

The leaves smell sweet around me and savory within.

Cold clouds clearing as the moon sails on.

It lights the open threshold, I am already gone.

Wind wakes wildly and ruffles up my fur:

I think I’ll go outside tonight, and take a walk with her.

You’re listening to the Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today I’m reading a poem written by Rob MacWolf,

who has actually once been struck by lightning.

“Rest Less”, a peom by Rob MacWolf

Cold clouds coiling around the pregnant moon.

Night is calling to me.

It is rising. It is soon.

Secret scents nocturnal up are swelling, and above

The moon rolls like a mirror

of the face of her I love.

I will not go outside tonight, will nor unbar the door.

Much as I love the moon above

I love my pillow more.

Dusk depths deepen,

but my quilt is just as deep.

Tonight will I lie warm

beneath the secret seal of sleep.

Long yards yearning

as the night wears on:

A room becomes a furlong after the light is gone.

Strong ways winding on familiar hills

All still to be discovered.

When the fire chills

The ashes seem the silver streak

across the open plain

When green is gone and blue is gone and black and white remain.

Sweet grass sweating out a liquid cold.

Close clothes fretting,

but my will will hold. Though

out upon the mountains I have gone questing oft,

My eyes are very weary and my bed is very soft.

The midnight wind is bracing

as a wine of molten red:

I have no need of either.

I am already in bed.

Silence sits as even as summer sifted sand,

Peace, forgetfulness, and bliss are all within my hand,

When drifts a wandering whistle

across the fluid night,

Its tone is very heavy,

its voice is very light.

It carries, calls, and choruses from engine cloud to me.

It rings the glassy silver rails that lead down to the sea.

It howls and harmonizes with the songs of yesterday That also echoed off the moon.

And sleep is far away.

The train is gone, the whistle fades.

She will have heard it too.

I am already doing it:

I know what I must do.

Tall trees rustling

as I unlock the door

Where every night I thrill to think

I may return no more.

Wild wind whispers of the wildest paths we trod

Where in moonshadows darkly we may see the face of God.

Brisk breeze bracing on my heavy

hanging tongue. Sward is soft between my toes,

the blades are new and young.

Scant breath skitters across my shivering skin.

The leaves smell sweet around me

and savory within.

Cold clouds clearing

as the moon sails on.

It lights the open threshold,

I am already gone.

Wind wakes wildly

and ruffles up my fur:

I think I’ll go outside tonight,

and take a walk with her.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.