They've taken down the
shining light, and the
river, has returned to its
blackened, hidden self.
In that place of
dreams,
night beds down, slow
forgetting tides and
flow,
calling to the
darkness,
arched as innocent
surrender,
true to sightless
possibility,
nothing seen,
just imagined,
sounds of suckling mud,
as it flows, out of
sight,
drifting in that sure way
of pure, and endless
being,
as I step into the dream
and
have no questions, for
all
may yet be made ready,
for the chill kiss of
dawn,
revealing what has
been
born in ebony
caverns, those
ephemeral figures creep,
drawn from Akashic
realms,
dipping trailing
fingers
into the wash of waves;
allowing the drown
of
becoming, to
release,
bequeath, unknown
treasures.
'What have you found?'
The voice rides
liquid crests,
somnolent, searching,
sighing,
at the breast of Soul; in
deliquescent dressing
drench
of formless, rich
potential.
'I found myself,' even though
I had not known I was lost.
Evening moon
glittering
on strewn harvest
of
luscious river weeds,
torn
from their beds, and
shaken
across the flooded
earth,
dressing muddy realms,
in
stalk, leaf and frond
of now
slow rotting death and
life.
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com.au/2017/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-flood.html?spref=fb
