A DANCE UPON Y GARN
The bones of the hills
The bones of rivers
The bones of the mist
The bones of meaning.
How shall we talk to the bones
Of things, the sweet marrow?
That great grey slope,
A rising falling sine wave,
A rumbling note bending horizons.
Converse with it dressed thus in cloud
And become a stranger removed from illusion.
Untied, drifting, anchored only to words
And a dance that is so so slow, it brings worlds to their end
And changes them that new languages are needed
To begin to know it, to begin to know it.
—
simonhlilly 
There is so much Brilliance in your writing!
The odd chink of light, perhaps.
Perhaps…☀️
Mr.S, your poetry is exquisite! It renders me speechless. Your gift of writing is a jewel to behold. Congratulations!