Water Dripping
Water Dripping
The sound of silence,
Only broken,
By the splash of a small drip,
A sound,
He had barely noticed before,
A sound that now,
Had become,
His only company,
His marker of time passing,
The echoing sound,
Of a dripping clock.
Suddenly he was awake,
Snatched back,
From a space of wild dreams,
From open fields
A place he was free to run,
Embraced by open skies,
Stretching out his arms,
He held the darkness,
The sound of drips
Turned into a splash.
Water had formed into Pools
Of sacred water,
Slowly he reached down,
and washed his unshaven face
and bathed his blistered feet.
At peace now,
The darkness began to fade,
And with his arms outstretched like angels wings,
And his head lifted high;
He flew up high into the moonlit clouds,
And watched the pure white light
Of a summers moon,
Flicker off
The mysterious,
Dark waters
below.
John Roberts
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