Part eleven

I saw the heron saluting the tide,
shoals of small fish seeking shelter
as dark clouds drew near
and the water lost its cheerful smile.

I heard all the village voices
as night moulded chores into chime,
I heard the small and the lost,
the severed and the folded
preparing for the leap.

I could feel the fire of craving
as darkness voiced its anxious song,
as seaweed gasped on sodden sand,
burning water trees fed the beast.

As summer rolls on with rain
and mad thunder in the garden
I open my nights into this,
a wound that will never heal,
a condition without a summit.




Poetry by Bob
Read 1210 times
Written on 2010-04-03 at 17:08

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