It landed and slept.
That foreign thing, a bit unkept. 

It arose and crept,
Down to the riverside. 
To wash and awake. 

Alone it drinks,
Alone it thinks. 
And thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

 It walks to edge, 
But then travels back.

Reminiscing home,
Precious time ingrown.
If only it had known.

 Had it been told?
Had it been shown?

Then is not now. 
Now is not then.

It sleeps and dreams, 
About youthful gleams,
This new life unforeseen. 

Swoops of Grace

No comments:

Post a Comment