All that can be conveyed
         from one mind to another
the medium of thought
         that weaves a world
of the imagining
         that can capture
the living breath
         within a block of marble
that can compose a melody
         in defiance of the nightingale
that can confront
         the hollow masks of night
with dreams that do not
         quaver at first light

stalled the decadence
         of beauty by acts
of immortality
         here where the willow weeps
here among the leaves
         that conceal the fruit
life that is ripe
         for the picking

words as an agency
         of love and adoration
the roar of the clear green waters
         that flow through our history
She raises a hand
         a finger to her lips
to hush all praise

time thirsts
         for these moments
it cannot sustain
         even as it disdains
the shattered hours
         of memories
shrouded in sad shadows

the wind is mute
         it has no message
just as bees are tied
         to their labours
and every garden dies
         every rose pales
and only the body’s beauty
         survives in sacramental flesh
in faith and hope
         and love

John Lyons


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