When dusk his solemn curtain draws
The grey mare drinks, a welcome pause,
And man accepts his man-made flaws
That’s where the magic is.
When baby toddles and falls down
When face forgets to practise frown
And Niamh’s dress becomes a gown
That’s where the magic is.
When fresh clay overcomes the stench
Of rotting soldier in the trench
A heartless judge comes off the bench
That’s where the magic is.
When weeping willow weeps no more
The storyteller spills his store
Of flotsam on mind’s island shore
That’s where the magic is.
When green and brown and yellow blend
And on each other must depend
To dress the hawthorn on the bend
That’s where the magic is.
When man and brother think out loud
And shelter from a common cloud
Then pride is taken from the proud
That’s where the magic is.
(Dedicated to Turquoise and 'Dirt Roads In April'.)
Such kindness, such beauty (the colors!) . . . beyond words. Your gifts light up the sky. Stunned, honored, I thank you.
ReplyDeleteTurquoise, how many people do you not know, for whom you have serious respect? We know half a dozen and you are on the very short list.
DeleteWow! That's really good!
ReplyDeleteMadeleine Begun Kane
You, too, are respected. Please see my comment #5, below:
ReplyDeletehttp://wwwreverberations.blogspot.com/2012/04/dirt-road-in-april.html
My way of appreciating.