Made using an image by Alexas_Fotos from Pixabay
I tell myself a story,
each time I wake from sleep,
an aching allegory
of sickness running deep.
I tell myself a tale,
in the fading of the day,
of symptoms making a jail
of me and acid rain that flays.
A tale I choose to tell,
but then in blessed stillness,
I hear the ringing of a bell
and see it is only illness.
I read a mythic story,
a book bound in living skin;
a buzzard soars bathed in glory
mirrored in Loch Síleann.
In this ancient fable
a wanderer finds a trail,
swaddled in fur of sable
he passes through a vale,
where crimson Oak whisper
and leaves kiss mossy knolls,
crisp beneath his feet in fissures
a thousand sparks of soul.
The wanderers in an endless now
both buzzard and roughshod man,
surrender to the murmuring boughs
and the end that just began.
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