Across a Field
Across a field,
the tips of tall grass tremble
in the moonlight. There are
silent wings gliding the dark,
soft callings way off in the distance
and occasionally, glowing eyes
seen high in the trees.
Secrets are kept here
sealed from sight, mysteries,
a cache of wonders
hidden under a thick silence
fencing off the borderlands between
dream and the oblivion
of sleep.
Here too are desires
still unshaped in their nurseries,
soul shadows rummaging through
old remains, fears, childhood,
the unanswered pleas echoing up
from somewhere, looking
for an opening to get
inside your head.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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