Thanksgiving

There are many ways we may:

imagine the motion of the stars,

feel the stillness of the forest,

watch the waters rise at spring tide,

hear wild horses in the mist,

sing the music of the ocean.

A scattering of worlds forsaken

in the first winds of the fall

that shakes the trees for the season.

And the ripening fruit knows its time

before frost glistens in the sun.

Fallen branches lie like bones

when the flesh is taken

as the fruit is taken

returning to the earth.

We may taste an obligation here,

an awakening to this life.

And in the eye eternity

The dust has a silence

that speaks of abandon.

“As if it were all over?”

the wise man mused, smiling

his watchful glance at a question

posed like a stalker’s shadow.

The poet’s heart beats its rhythm.

a celestial villanelle

of life measured to an end

for the perfect word

that speaks of beginning

a thought for thanksgiving,

a prayer for the asking

at last the question:

“What land is this, pioneer?”

Categorised in: Article

This post was written by Geoffrey Heptonstall