Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The true poet dreams being awake. He is not possessed by his subject, but has dominion over it. In the groves of Eden he walks familiar as in his native paths. He ascends the empyrean heaven, and is not intoxicated. He treads the burning marl without dismay; he wins his flight without self-loss through realms of chaos "and old night"...

photo © bob arnold



It was a dreamy time for you and me
The weather said so

The pair of windows that opened like shutters
The easy turn of the latch

Through the opening light dazzled
Something like your hair

Many years married I loved you like
A young girl from behind

A small bird with flashing orange wings
Sang from a tree that grew to our window

In this hut we built with our own hands
Some would call it a fairytale

These days pass by as light becomes darkness
There is next to nothing to show for it