One Day

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One day
all this will be gone,
you, me, the buildings,
the bridges, the paintings,
the books and the poetry,
it will all be just another
seam, compressed
deep down in the
earth’s crust.

Whatever
beautiful life forms
inhabit the planet then
will have long since adapted
to whatever we have
left behind.

As for us,
we’ll be somewhere else,
an energy or a whisper of light,
still reflecting on what we did
and how we did it.

The Way

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In how many
footsteps do I follow?

This path,
this human path
is worn so deep
you would think
it impossible to stray
but so many of us do.

I for one.

Perhaps by
doing so we make
the path a little wider
for those who come after,
or perhaps we are just fools.

The path itself may be ancient
but each soul who walks it
walks it anew.

Literate

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I read the poets,
they spoke to my heart,
not my every day heart, my deep heart,
the one down by the dark river.

Then one day, for just a moment
I felt the angel of peace settle
on my aching shoulders.

I wrote down what happened
and when I read it I found
I was reading a poem.

Now I am fully literate,
I can both read and write.

Today

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Out here in the
garden this morning
it’s dark, misty and quiet,
just the sound of the trains
and the traffic in the distance,
nearby, the cry of a raven.

All around me I can hear
the leaves of the ash tree falling
a golden rain, a golden carpet
soft under my feet,
and all is peace.

When I go home
my soul will be imprinted with
the shapes of these London houses,
dark in the light of the dawn,
chimneys like ancient battlements
along the terraces,
and out here behind them
an oasis of trees, roses
and prowling cats.