by Richard Vince
Identical birds assemble in a line
On the spire of the church
As the ghosts of once proud tower blocks
Keep a vigil on the greying scene.
Hibernating trees scratch the sky
With sharp, questing fingers...
And all the world seems to be
Made up of one material,
One substance in a single colour:
The colour of lifelessness.
Here, now, the clouds are not lonely.
They hide the whole sky between them.
The Sun, however, remains
In its endless solitude,
Miles from anything, far away
From all those that see
Its beauty and love its light.
Yet the Sun keeps shining
As the world keeps turning
Day and night, summer and winter.
Perhaps the people of the world
Need to know how fortunate
They have been all these years.
They have the Earth to cradle
And nourish them, and
The Sun to watch over them
And keep them warm.
But most fail to see
The beauty that surrounds them.
Maybe, one day, they will find
Themselves watching the Sun setting
Over the sea, and really see
What has always been there
Then maybe they'll see.
Posted on 01/07/2002
Copyright © 2019 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Rhyana Fisher on 05/11/03 at 12:32 PM|
would be nice. but i'm not going to hold my breath waiting for that to happen. the more willfully blind a person is, the less they really want to open their eyes. enjoyed this.