Saturday, 2 June 2012

Angel Artist

A brook, a field,
Big rocks, and little stones,
Some sheep, and some trees.
The sweetest birdsong
Unto ears blessed;
From moors and seashore in the east,
To mountains and lakes in the west.

The beauty of a dream
Sits within my field of vision,
Burning like the sun.
She is the valley
And all sits within her creases,
Living like the green, and ceaseless

Valley grass; feeding, nourishing,
On which the newborn lambs
Rest their woollen heads;
Where we lay down
In the sun's golden strands:
One look, a brush of hands.

One look, a brush of hands,
And the wind whispers on,
I open my eyes, as if from sleep;
She was just a dream
And though for her I search
She is gone.

The artist of the valley,
Painting the grass so green,
Playing those sweet songs for me;
I search your hips and arch of your brow,
To paint you a smile
To match the smile you give me.

No comments:

Post a Comment