by john stocks

I resolved that this would be
My last visit.
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the time capsuled boat house garage,
To the skeins of geese,
Browns hotel, tables of half -drunk glasses.
Knowing this, my senses were on fire
For whatever presence lingers here,
Wondering if morning still comes
Wounded from the western hills,
Or if cormorants still hug the shore
Oblivious of place, space and time.
My eyes roamed the sifting, shifting sands,
Parting clouds, shadows across the estuary.
I watched a robin punch out his breast
Sing pugnaciously, chord less but pure
In the distance a heron, not flying
But striding purposefully
Across the mudflats.
Breaking the equilibrium,
So that nothing was contained
Within the moment,
Within the horizon.
And, in the evening,
The rains came;
it was enough for this lifetime.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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