Your soul is a large room;
I may find freedom by the hearth.
What is slumbering will rise
under the shadows of night
and the quiet music of stars.
Sunrise is reflected in the dew of your eyes.
The horizon aches with your absence.
The tide slows as it reaches the mournful shore.
Your silence flows through bare branches
as trees stretch beneath the sky.
Sorrow is a journey we dare not begin.
You gather flowers and stones like a softly-worn path,
inhabited by memories and laughter.
I wake as birds lift,
trailing songs behind them,
notes descending as feathers
they have lost to the wind.
They have lost to the wind
notes descending as feathers.
Trailing songs behind them,
I wake as birds lift,
inhabited by memories and laughter.
You gather flowers and stones like a softly-worn path;
sorrow is a journey we dare not begin
as trees stretch beneath the sky;
your silence flows through bare branches.
The tide slows as it reaches the mournful shore;
the horizon aches with your absence.
Sunrise is reflected in the dew of your eyes
and the quiet music of stars.
Under the shadows of night,
what is slumbering will rise.
I may find freedom by the hearth;
your soul is a large room.
Adding your comment:
. I'll be back to read this one - often. Brilliant piece of writing by one of my favourite poets, and about one of my favourite poets 
