Pages
The tactile brush of pages across skin
Trace memories and images of things been
I hold here in my hand a collection of poetry
Concentrated emotion holding more than me
Another, and I can cry again at the Irish dead
And imagine their dreams scattered with lead
And another, I hear the cry of the child Attila
Whispering to the four horsemen, 'hither’
I can read an infinite number of dark ladies
Or the woes of the Greeks trapped with Hades
Of Statues decayed in forgotten sands
Of new peoples’ found in new found lands
Dream visions wrote in language unfamiliar
Or cars and trains things more similar
Of Man’s first disobedience
Or a just King’s discovery of lenience
Of love and life both lived and living
Of death and strife and judgement giving
A never ending variety of thoughts from air
And all this, without once leaving my chair
