What an enchanted loom the brain is,

the fount of all our mortal sight

but what through the vision of man

is weaving it all with threads of light !

Not tailor-made as some describe

to cut a cloth to fit our want,

more like a game of ' hide and seek '

or now you see it, now you don't !

A down turned card that might be bluffing

that everything should come, from nothing !


The stars have called us from distraction

and tuned our senses to the bone

and voilà ! Sunlight, satisfaction

red admiral on Cambrian stone !

But who is it beneath the claustra

that stays young as we grow older,

that knows full well eternity,

that butterfly now on my shoulder ?


And who is he not one to laugh,

him death-defying, ever sure

to smile back from a photograph

as if to be forever more ;

not he who strolls along his path

verbose perhaps, not polymath

with something else that he has seen

in autumn and the evergreen,

a self discovered as blue sky

that infiltrates an open mind,

and after that, as in a dream

the old self never reigns supreme,

sabbatical from time and space-

an old man with a wrinkled face.

roy austin
Retired Sage follower
roy austin

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