The Flood

They’ve taken down the
shining light, and the
river, has returned to its

blackened, hidden self.

In that place of dreams,

night beds down, slow

forgetting tides and flow,

calling to the darkness,

arched as innocent surrender,

true to sightless possibility,

nothing seen, just imagined,

sounds of suckling mud,

as it flows, out of sight,

drifting in that sure way

of pure, and endless being,

as I step into the dream and

have no questions, for all

may yet be made ready,

for the chill kiss of dawn,

revealing what has been

born in ebony caverns, those

ephemeral figures creep,

drawn from Akashic realms,

dipping trailing fingers

into the wash of waves;

allowing the drown of

becoming, to release,

bequeath, unknown treasures.

‘What have you found?’

The voice rides liquid crests,

somnolent, searching, sighing,

at the breast of Soul; in

deliquescent dressing drench

of formless, rich potential.

‘I found myself,’ even though

I had not known I was lost.

Evening moon glittering

on strewn harvest of

luscious river weeds, torn

from their beds, and shaken

across the flooded earth,

dressing muddy realms, in

stalk, leaf and frond of now

slow rotting death and life.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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