By: Harrison Maxwell Peter Haines
The Pastor’s hand slipped through the holy water
nimbly, like the babbling tide of blood filled oceans.
Baptised in autumn he stands in the rain,
droplets sketch his lips and drown his dark green irises.
He knocks on an ebony door, a young lady whose silence
as beautiful as the trees frosted in the
first snow of November opens.”Tell me” she asked
him of the past, for I only know of the future.
“I do not know my way from here,
every road I see is virgin,” Said he,
“and if the sky is darker than the horizon,
how do I know if the daisies bloomed?”
“Your children will tell you,
for now rest your heavy heart in the sand
and let your weathered soul wash in the sun-beat salt
you may have lost your road, but you’ve some how wandered home”
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