Birdsong at sunrise
Rising sweet on the clear air
A hymn of morning

His ship run a ground
Lost the pull of the morning tide
The moon abandoned him on the rocky coastline until late that night
Then he retuned to the waters
Due west towards the next sun set
Soon the waves carried him
Unto another life
He was free again!

The poetry isn’t in all these words —
It’s in knowing I survived them.

.
A month of Sundays intrudes darkly
upon a beautiful soft new Spring.
Casting the shadows of confusion,
growing hope for what Summer may bring.


© Pagan Paul (06/04/20)

In this constant state
Of hollow emptiness
I long.....
For a messy chaos.