Spirits Sell Dreams Again…

Pmespeak's Blog

771Winter Landscape, with Rooks

“Water in the millrace, through a sluice of stone,
plunges headlong into that black pond
where, absurd and out-of-season, a single swan
floats chaste as snow, taunting the clouded mind
which hungers to haul the white reflection down.

The austere sun descends above the fen,
an orange cyclops-eye, scorning to look
longer on this landscape of chagrin;
feathered dark in thought, I stalk like a rook,
brooding as the winter night comes on”…by Sylvia Plath

Early morning—sounds are soft ‘gainst ear—and—movement here—does not play darts—and goes—and—stop or start. Reflect—don’t think—and—happen—as life happens—in a sweet flow— of quiet seashore—and moonlight—bright. Waves gentle—gently removes—sand castle winds—fade fast—as eastern stars’ twinkle faith—and—roars of today’s—day touch future stops and goes. We are—barefoot children—of yesterday’s—todays—and tomorrow’s sunlight—bright. We leave—behind—dances—little paws—marks—in semi-wet sand—cool—and— without ever-care-never. Pipers play and children dance—into ragged-sorted-night—and—as they dance—Goddess flash—darkness—thunders and—those claps-of-little-hands—and—rings join—little songs and laughter—only as…

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