The Changeling
I am the newly born face of munificence, unquenchable beauty.
My tides are full with bountifulness, like an orchard to the table.
My fleece radiates guiltless white, bestowed like a lamb, fresh
upon its mother. And the flight of a newborn world is upon the wing
My once childish demeanour has grown into a handsome face,
with the offer of a pristine horizon as dowry. And the fruits from
the fleur de mer are bound for the land, to walk amoung its forests
and cultivate its soil. Free of tarnish and burnished by a new sun
As the cloud's rivers carry food along my valleys, carved
by mighty glaciers, the King Fisher learns its trade and
apes are low in prominence. As yet to chase the flame
and its future dividend
But, as with any river, there are two shores upon which to live.
And there are signs that a sheep in wolf's clothing stands two
legged and tall upon the other shore. And like the changing of
the seasons, too soon its cold has become warm and its warm
become hot. Wrapping a ring of savage finality about itself
On that bank, benevolence has changed a once accepting face,
to one of prideful leers. And the once responsible mien of its
manhood has lately become the childish game of a drunken
fool to be frittered away, like so many coins
And changing tides recede onto unredeeming shore lines, as a
water fall's once prized cascade becomes scorched by a pitiless
sun. And yet. My heart still resonates with the cries of a dying
humanity and should our eyes and ears only perceive it, there
is time to nurture this changeling yet. To cross the river and
force back the spears of gluttony that have breached this paradise.
To grasp the hands of an entire peoples despair and lift them up,
like a father to a child and the righteous to the atoned
For without this change of games pursued, we leave behind a
dessicated husk of rock. To become one of many such trinkets
that orbit the lights in the night sky.
Copyright © Terry Robinson | Year Posted 2015
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