
Caught,
No way out,
The shout
Of children laughing beyond the hill,
The sun
Wrapped up in billowing clouds,
Within the green, wavering willows
There are bowls
Of singing songs
Woven of silver shrouds
Of moonlight,
A thought
Flown
By,
The gongs
Of the ancient temple at the top of the flight
Of stone steps,
No one knows why.
After the fall,
No recall.
No intention.
Only the mystic lands,
Where glide
The magic birds,
Unknown,
Beyond all paths of being
Where stands
Only the Presence of Eternity,
Beyond the misted rings of timeless time, beckoning
Where only the sacred one walks along,
Only the One
Beyond all paths of being
And the herd
Of little bearded goats
That traipses after,
Who play
In the grass on the sands,
By the rolling sea,
They are the jokes of Saturn, Shani,
Who bray
With their offkey
Bleating call
Nearby,
Where the seasongs
Float on the seaweed
Of the ever-turning tide.
© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2022
Thank you, Cindy.
How beautiful Sharon.