I count my trails along a field of woe
herein, a night rambles on tiers of doom.
Boughs curling their arms; my eyes cast below
upon dull marble stones where sighs are entombed.
I clutch for the moon that guides a wind’s flow;
My dwindling hands brushing leaves uncombed.
Yet prayers for life unmoved from above
As shoulders freeze to find one precious dove.
I enter an arch of disarranged hill
Blinded by darkness; thick the skin of air.
My lips quiver into whispers, until
Feathers so lucent appear from nowhere.
Sweet voice of cherub awakens a thrill
Listening to her psalm of light, sincere.
While fragrance of comfort wafts on flowered breast
Angel of dove wheels far, granting me rest.
Gail Doyle's Whispers Of Light