And from the sky it falls,
surely this is holy water,
pooling innumerately in every
lobe, crevice, canyon, curve,
policy maker of every nerve

Trickling down without skin,
gathering benign boulder
and plentiful sediment sin,
trickles, tumbles, oft torrents
saturating the subconsciousness

Winding evergreen through isobars,
faulting ordnance surveyed lines,
dreaming of no man, no wall,
randomly dealt to King and Pawn,
inhaled so deeply by those who mourn

As the sun displays its freshest dawn,
particles speed as sorrows warm
melt the frost of coldest morn
and the first careful drop is drawn
into the cloud of heaven borne
but regardless of its work or form
by gravity, surely, it must be torn
and fall again on this same lawn

12/28/2002

Posted on 12/28/2002
Copyright © 2025 Phil P Robson