Hagestad

I was once left behind. Lost. Would be woods
reserved in their gnarled and cankered fiction.
No crumbs of our misunderstood childhoods,
just sand flecked labyrinths soiled by foot friction.
Water coloured melds of many moss greens,
turquoise ticks heathen’s purple to the sea
Finally I can breathe in, salted scenes
of what surely must be free? Old windy
blanched sand banks frame the changing blank canvass
drawn currently. The skeins of our lives guide
us to sweet tranquillity. Too precious
to be owned by human weakness or pride.
Next to fields of blond stubble, weather shielded;
roses pout, orchards pose, beauty wielded.


Poetry by iRate
ACTIVIST. MUSICIAN. WRITER.
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