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Divine Steeples
She lets me put violets in her hair,
good-humouredly, calls me Ophelia
in such a way that I spout, But Shakespeare
pushed war, not love. Resplendent, Thalia
strolls the peaceful paths of Victoria Park,
taken with the interplay of people,
the signs of change, bridges like love at work;
Often, her hands become divine steeples
of calm prayer. Yet there is imminence
heard in fervencies, a tremendous will
wrought with words of truth and tolerance
that dare to preserve all that is spiritual.
Three share our views in comfortable silence,
Me, hope and a Goddess of Non-Violence.
*For Catie
Copyright ©
Cyndi Macmillan
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