The dream of you surrounds
me this morning: It lazes
upon leaves blooming
godlike in the sun;
it's in the steam on
the bleary-eyed lake
where beauty is things unseen,
where one mallard drifts
across the cauldron
and Earth reaches Heaven.
It is in the champagne-sprinkled
air that reminds my lungs
they are alive and capable
of singing.
The morning is soaked in you:
it tastes like a fresh, tender sun
and dreams I thought
were safely stored away forever.
It is in the forest that breeds
countless souls and quiet
I wish to own,
and when the day's last light
is just a senile blaze
like the last struggling
flame of our lives,
you will inhabit that gold mist
and stamp it on my spirit;
I will wear it till the
unblinking moon learns to sleep.
The sound of you,
the touch of you
is in all the unintentional
beauty of earth,
and if heaven is all
it promises to be,
you will be
there.
Patricia Joan Jones
This poem received the Gala's Touch award at Galadrial's Respite poetry forum.
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