Four pillars, fluted and scrolled, stand now in support
of nothing: in nettles, behind wire. They do not hold
the sky. Nor is there sign of what might have laden;
no twisted rust, nothing. Only in a moment, on the path
when pausing to look at a thistle half blown, do I
wonder what has been taken, and that which remains.
04/09/2016
#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook bliss
Let bliss be that moment, when footsteps slupper
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.
Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.
in the dampness of sand and all sound rings with blood
in the ear. Where by reaching out without lifting
we may pull down the sky to rise, with tails flying,
with nothing more than the string of ourself
to hold us. And all around us glitters, pooled,
in the brilliance of light, for where we stand
and what we see reflected in clear air exhaled.
Let that be bliss. Let that be the bliss of knowing
that we have made track of steps without fear
or demanding eternity, for that moment we are.
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