simonhlilly

THEY ARE BEYOND

They are beyond reach, beyond the wall,

Beyond the chattering sparrows in the cool mist morning.

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The hill mutes its gold and silver.

In the valley, old men farm regret.

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It is beyond, but hinted, by the soft fall of rain,

By the slow southern breeze,

By the pale light and waiting.

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It is curled about the sleeping cat,

It’s breath a whisper in the room.

It goes out and comes back

Dressed in notions, disguised in feelings.

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It is inherent, yet escapes from

These eternal passing moments.

It becomes a word, moves air, shifts the sight,

Then disappears.

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