World Without End
It was on a day quite ordinary
that the stream of consciousness
bore gifts of green and white
and frozen silver,
where the old ones walked.
For here a boy
about to turn away
broke off his waking reverie
when something, not quite rising
as a memory,
thrust in upon the scene
and bound its peace.
From out of history it came
to all the tumult,
sacrificing time,
its blood not stanched
but flowing still. He climbs
the stockyard fence to watch
the mewling ghosts
hold sway once more, while
just beyond the hill,
the pines are sheltering
the little owls who never sleep--
their wisdom tractable
and flashing from their eyes.
~
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.
