The Watcher

The silver mirror turns to fire.
Golden haired, a halo of sunrise
Is in the clouds.

His robe is cloudy grey and heavier.
Than the robe of air
That was lighter than petals, silk or breath.

He passes over my head like a wind horse;
The hem of his robe brushes my face.
“Nephilim” Someone said.

“Elohim”, I replied.

He is standing above and beyond me;

I see him looking East.
He is a young-looking and handsome;
He is older than day, cooler than rain,

But there are no tears in his eyes; his eyes dry.

He watches and waits like a coiled Spring,
Radiating fiery light that is silvery grey,

Like fire of the moon and dry rain.

I cannot breathe or blink, I do not feel or think
As I watch him watching the sun rise.
I hope his gaze does not turn on me.
Angel, anima, herald, star, who is he?

It matters less if he does not see me.

His impenetrable breastplate
Is his silver chest of translucent air;

Knight of the sun or prince of the night,

His hair reflects the golden light,
Rising in the dawn he knows is coming.

Ever he swears allegiance:

Eternal is His dominion;

I watch for Him until day breaks.

If the Watcher stops watching, will the watched-for never return?