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The sky, a ceiling of sallow floc,

compresses the breath, the mind, the will,

all aspiration chained to foreground,

a trudging evolution of sepic moments, 

jejune obsessions, tawdry distraction, 

the ether’s trails filtered to murk, 

suggesting, to the unschooled eye,

a natural climatic malaise


No solar orientation,

the map forgotten, destiny

opaque, a fading thought,

age of gold neither memory nor vision



Smokescreen and camouflage

can no more obscure the origin of life

than expiate the consequence of hubris

Behind the veil, above it and within,

breathes the vibrant prospect meant for us

Breeze hints, wind spins the theme, shrouds rag

Gulls soar through shimmering air

in a paradise of fourth dimensional blue... 


It is still the Creator's world...




from Mysteries of Light (forthcoming collection)

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