Decades of weaving days drove by unnoticed
hobbling slidely through
the unkempt meadow of my brevity.
A fierce uncertain frailness flies in heavenly strands
towards the cracked unmended plate of joy
which earlier in my halcyon days had slipped
out of my tender clumsy hands
I brushed the pieces from the brittle floor of hope
and took me broken through
the crashing ocean of my lunacy.
A voice speaks roughly to my soul and battens down
the wayward hatches of my easterish
golgothic scenes (for there all is not what it seems)
and in my mind I saw your crown
I now and maybe neverendly howl with many
shuddering fountains in
the whitewashed hillsides of my sanity.
Then soon I let me go and fall into the ground
amidst the sounds of season-tainted trees
and reaching for some leaves as blurredly I slumbered down
I found the home I never owned
© Alan Morrison, 2018