This Island Home
On storm-ripped nights when seaboards crack
And wings of angels rendered black
Are clouds that seethe and boil on high,
The canvas of some desolate sky.
On empty days like shredded rags
Trailed down from mountain peaks and crags
To flap across the barren floors
Uneven plains and lakeland shores.
On trails of tears to God knows where,
When weary eyes flood with despair,
The turgid creep of asphalt stress,
Grey flannels tied to emptiness.
In this vast cathedral sanctuary,
With faith and love, democracy,
Within, without, beloved view,
This island home stands firm and true.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
