In Search of Something To Say
I am tired of prayer portals,
gateways unlocked by trance,
the meditative magic carpet rides
to promised realms, the rituals -
it has always
been here in the soft whisperings
of evenings, writing its narrative
in everything -
the tall eucalypts
of the high country, the coastal
she oaks and grasses buffeted
by the wind, rivers and pebbled
streams, mountains, the wide
plains - and murmurs
in the soul stuff
and in every atom of me.
Mostly I am deaf to its voice
and search for my own,
a plea, a prayer, anything at all
to send a ripple across
this dark, featureless terrain
that drops off at the cliff edge
of thought and stretches beyond
the full stop at the end
of my mind.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2026
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