It's almost too hot to write...
Drift
Pure energy drifts, blazes in colours hewn from glass,
reflections cut in fleeting, glints of sunblast strewn,
wild gold dust ever-a-move as if stillness were a curse.
There is rebirth in the flowing, overreaching, the
arch,
the way you just won’t sit tight in your allocated box.
These sparks defy the lines and lines of etched steel.
You watch eyes blink out the bleak darkness of the
earth,
this glint amid starbright, a crossing of the gods of
old,
grey-bearded and worn. Their fables wander down the
ages,
and ourselves are but light years scattered upon thinnest
air,
set adrift among the distant echoes left by deft travelling
stars.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 18, 2023
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for commenting :)