Some things
Were born of the tempest
And their beauty lies
In the storm
Hands pocketed
Shoulders hunched
Voices hushed
They’re a beautiful sight
These denizens of stormy weather
There’s a strength
In their solemn wonder
Here where nature runs her course
Indifferent to the human presence
While the humans revel quietly
In hers
I remember
And I write
Words seeking time
In some future dream
When the Flanders torch
Shall not be passed
We will no longer ask
The young to die
For causes wrought
Upon the lie
Of righteousness
A time when poppies bloom
In their rightful spring
Not this remorseful
Autumnal rite
No longer red
No blood be spilled
But lovely white
Our peace fulfilled
Ambivalence
Trepidation
Uncertainty
Too much?
Too dark?
Too bleak?
For a bistro?
Until a voice says
“That is me, up there
On your wall.”
And the creatures
Which skittered there
Having barely left the sea
I think of a wave
And the littlest living things
Awash in the foaming ocean
Not so unlike
The littlest living things
Swishing over my feet in the surf
Eyes closed
In your arms
A burst of colour
Beyond any sunset
Isolated
And alone
But tides turn
And so do I
So soon
The sea
Reveals
The sand
And I
Am one
With the
World
Again
And I wonder
Need I say more?
Or is there more
To say?
I could ask
What might she say?
Caught in the moment
Mind gone astray
That moment is hers
Not mine to know
Nor is it yours
Not part of the show
Pix to Words 