There is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been!
- Percy Bysshe Shelley
For those who don't know me well, there is more then a little of the Irish in me, and I have old and sad ties to the green land of Erin. Sometimes I scratch out some poem or two of that land of mirth and hearthache, and I may as well post them here as leave them in the computer files to gather cyber-dust.
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Heart Wind
Winds kiss the tall grasses and weave pictures in the mind,
of a living sea that fills the land from sky to sky and back again.
They sing of places gone and yet to be again, for us to finally find,
amid the flowing of our history from the future where its lain.
The winds will speak of Kings, and Lords, and Jesters among mortal man,
and tell a weaving poem of epic form outlining each of them.
War and Peace, and in between, where man is best but often ban,
echoing songs of sorrow and joy too, and bittersweet the ancient poems.
Whispering pipes across the hills, each dale the depth to gently fill,
and call to hearts so far away, that come no more, or at last to stay.
Echoes of history that tell of it all, the giving of life or the last bloody kill,
drift on the wind like a song of the heart, touching us all in its own special way.
HEART WIND
A beautiful and sad poem, Johnn.
Thank you for so many wonderful treasures in the Lair this day.
Some born from pain, others of joy
we put them down in words to share
with all who've been there.
bf