Of old… a poem



Tis darkness I see upon the textures delighting beckoned below the fire’s eye

Wispy the tendrils trail higher and higher sensation to pallet yet dry

Fig imprisoned in custard plum pudding, oatcake and teacake meander

Savory nectar teasing, delighting whilst sufferance to quench the bystander

Abducted of foul, scalded and hardened, confined by a woven collective

Flagon of grapes whose tears implored, antiquated and silent, reflective

Wilted the oat, barley and wheat from whence subsistence will bare

Arboreal shedding tiny the foliage hint of honeysuckle filling the air

Appeasing in this a humble-laid lair not fit for king nor queen

Alas, now cometh held high as to heaven marrow and essence of wing

Kid upon stick tumbling aimless in hearthside dripping in sputtering sorrow

Licking up embers dancing displaying the secrets of a quasar’s tomorrow

Yet, lest we not ponder from whence richness descends, not mortals who convey the sword

Submissive the servant to this His creation, knee bent, head bowed, praise the Lord

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