The Echo

THE ECHO

Heeding your call I try to devise

A delicious repast in a shady vale

Enduring, refractive and sung to a lyre.

Who would you be then? My images lost,

I’d call you by name, and then take your hand

Along by the ocean, down a long winding path;

Indeed like good luck, wrapped up in a caul

Of a newborn babe full of howls and yells

Left on the doorstep, the throne in crisis,

Exhumed from the oyster,  a pearl of chance.

My pencil point pen would sooth the parched throat

With floes of impending devotion,

Its sand and mud flats would banish the flagrance

From minds remiss of design and then bloom,

While flares of brilliant hues exterminate

Throughout all fields of sloth, the call

Of despondency:  the long lost jetsam

Washed ashore, deriding mortality

Resting in the sun of the breaking morn.

March 5, 2011