Paul Willason Poet Free verse

In Search of Something To Say

I am tired of prayer portals,
gateways unlocked by trance,
the meditative magic carpet rides
to promised realms, the rituals - 
it has always
been here in the soft whisperings
of evenings, writing its narrative 
in everything - 

the tall eucalypts 
of the high country, the coastal 
she oaks and grasses buffeted 
by the wind, rivers and pebbled 
streams, mountains, the wide
plains - and murmurs 
in the soul stuff
and in every atom of me. 

Mostly I am deaf to its voice
and search for my own,
a plea, a prayer, anything at all
to send a ripple across
this dark, featureless terrain
that drops off at the cliff edge
of thought and stretches beyond
the full stop at the end 
of my mind.

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