A book is like a whispering
of wings;
Strange the sighs that
rise up in me
Lifting from the stealth of life upon the page
Unhurried meeting of minds
in what I read;
Discoveries of insights, echoing
within,
Where they have lain asleep, waiting to be met
If only from the dawn of
time, lapping round
The standing stones, beneath
the unknown seraph
That in me guards my heart, in whispering, life
Poem
from a Sequence:
A
Rain of Booklight
Part 1 # 32
Part 1 # 32
© Judith Evans
Deverell, 2014
The Bookmark Project
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