In a rain soaked field
where waters meet earth,
meet the hand of man
a ‘Golden Flower’ holds court
and asks only, for my observance.
I bow my head to it
and the mists immemorial
taking that prospect,
of rains falling
from the heart of the land.
Away, with the Fluss to the Father who surely carries
my wish to the sea,
to far foreshore
and just a little yonder portal.
Not much toil stirs the Sabbath,
save appealing bells,
saving some souls, they toll Sun Day.
Pray. we may touch unity, some day,
with our own atypical resonances.
“I guess you might describe me as a semi-nomad, at the moment . . . and in the moment, I might change. I am transitioning into a creative life, blogging, photography and, significantly, the publication of my first two photographically illustrated poetry anthologies, this year.”
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