Newborn
Where we are born anew
we may scorn, we might cry,
we might shake the cradle
where we lie just to say
a thing, be seen, be heard.
We walk a line newly drawn,
enter shapes just coloured
and pass away the time peering
into windows, the soul stealers,
but waken dew for washing.
These nights grow wretched old,
scour the dark for a little sense.
Yet we are lacking in what we
know, what we sow and borrow,
for time is rushing out, and will
not stop to ask us how we are.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 12, 2020
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