Those children of the blessed flames.
I wandered through the crying sun, so mystified and starry eyed|
in gold and orange morning mist, as colours wed the rising dead
And diamond mirrors on the lawn see what was gone, and what is born
For mirrors see so many sides when morning glides and evening hides
And every page of in between, each church glass coloured window scene
Seems so surreal and clandestine, for no-one knows where they have been
And no-one seems to understand each page awaits their own command
For church windows and crying sun, in fact can paint you heaven spun.
I talked with last yearís copper beech, so whisper wide the countryside
It shook itís bronze cast tambourines, as echoes ring, awaiting Spring
And everywhere came whispers back, of what we have and what we lack
Though all we need to comprehend is how each seasonís branches bend
And how each breeze sings different songs, for each one knows where it belongs
And each one knows just where to play the poetry it has to say,
Where wires across the pastures wait each whispered poem that drifts in late
And then they strum like harpsichords, for nature sings each poetís words.
I watched my moments wander by, they want to talk and yet they walk
Past every empty page of verse, for time can hold such rhymeless rhyme
And nowhere can life treat you worse than when you seek the poetís curse
Between the fragments of my days, a signpost rises, and it says
That only when the time is right will rhythmic words come to the light
Though yet I feel inside of me, a surging rhythmic sensuous sea
That carries me to who knows where, through sheer delight, or dark despair
Until at last I recognise lifeís beauty through a poetís eyes.
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