Post by keith on Jun 3, 2021 5:04:08 GMT -5
Their moments basked within the gold, and yet they still were shivering
Though they had often felt the sun, and heard the morning chorus sing,
Their eyes held crystal promises, that percolated through the dawn
A sense of subtle compromise, a sense of barely being born,
And in their echoed whisperings, a sense of so much still unsaid
For sometimes just before a birth, there is a sense of being dead,
Until the clocks call out the hour, there is a taste of timelessness
But time is such a fickle thing that moves in circles more or less.
The emeralds tasted Summer days with so much sensuality
Amazed at every image there, so much to do, so much to see,
They wandered through the woodland’s spell, and rested on the river’s bed
To dream within their diamond sleep, of places where the water’s led,
Eventually they awoke, and crawled across the cornfield’s shade
Where rooks stripped ripened corn stems bare, oblivious of the mess they made,
As through the hedgerows, through the rain, they caught up with themselves again
Without a thought, without a dream, without a reason to explain.
Then emeralds let their flowers sleep, steeped in their serendipity
Soft colours floating on the green, like water lilies on the sea,
And as the hours yawned in the dusk, just waiting for the day to fade
The emeralds fluttered in the breeze, enchanted by the song they made,
While sunlight touched them as it waned, its twilight sceptre bowing low
They felt the need to dream again, as twilight muted evening’s glow,
And emeralds tinkled one last time, a breeze filled touch of evensong
Then wandered off within themselves, before the shadows grow too long…
Though they had often felt the sun, and heard the morning chorus sing,
Their eyes held crystal promises, that percolated through the dawn
A sense of subtle compromise, a sense of barely being born,
And in their echoed whisperings, a sense of so much still unsaid
For sometimes just before a birth, there is a sense of being dead,
Until the clocks call out the hour, there is a taste of timelessness
But time is such a fickle thing that moves in circles more or less.
The emeralds tasted Summer days with so much sensuality
Amazed at every image there, so much to do, so much to see,
They wandered through the woodland’s spell, and rested on the river’s bed
To dream within their diamond sleep, of places where the water’s led,
Eventually they awoke, and crawled across the cornfield’s shade
Where rooks stripped ripened corn stems bare, oblivious of the mess they made,
As through the hedgerows, through the rain, they caught up with themselves again
Without a thought, without a dream, without a reason to explain.
Then emeralds let their flowers sleep, steeped in their serendipity
Soft colours floating on the green, like water lilies on the sea,
And as the hours yawned in the dusk, just waiting for the day to fade
The emeralds fluttered in the breeze, enchanted by the song they made,
While sunlight touched them as it waned, its twilight sceptre bowing low
They felt the need to dream again, as twilight muted evening’s glow,
And emeralds tinkled one last time, a breeze filled touch of evensong
Then wandered off within themselves, before the shadows grow too long…
great poetry
make my world peaceful and perfect. Thank you! Ursula xx
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
