Photo by ArtHouse Studio on Pexels.com
The mountains and the mist
Stone - the house of spirit
Spirit without a house is like
A tortoise might be without a shell
Or a flower with no upholding stem
The sun without a companion moon
A dream without the awakening
The night absent the dawn
The indwelling spirit – gone
Like the man without a wit of sense
That strange, ill-tempered one
Who, with no permission
Built a world of plastic,
A desecration, bereft of magic
A digging up of the hallowed bones
Of the sacred
Gold-winged dragons
Bringing forth a brittle box –
Stolen from the earth’s crust
And the planet’s inmost soul
Leaving an empty pit
A blasphemy
A parody of being
An End
Hence, we must go back now
Soon
To the land of dawn-green forests
Where the horned lark may call forth her wisdom,
Where a pack of wolves sing
In the echoing dark
Where the Mediterranean plum
Trees greet the tall, talking rocks
With the pattern of the sunlit web of shadow,
The houses of spirit
Rise again in the mist
Where the waves honor the owl-bright night,
And fishes leap with keener sight
Under the fleet,
Billowing sails of the eternal moon -
The ship of all beginning.
© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2023