The Thinking Poet

 

Love Song

In the beginning was the Word.
And the Word, given voice, fashioned song;
A love song
Sung since the dawn of time,
Which I in my allotted span have heard;
Couplets in rhyme:
A phrase here, a fragment there,
Caught on a sudden breath of air
Which touches me; then dies.

Where does it rise, this song?
Its source is setting suns,
High hills where water runs,
Wild seas, lonely shores,
Leaves of trees when first frosts freeze,
In skies where swallows fly.

There is no end to it, this song,
Heard everywhere, yet nowhere,
Its theme a recurring dream.
My scattered self is left 
In parts where I have strayed;
In solitude I stand, entranced,
Listening, still listening,
Absorbed.

The word made flesh
Fires my flesh
To seek, to learn,
To bind the words and music to my heart.

This love lilt woos.
It will not rest
Till I am won,
And we are one in song.

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28.11.86

Ron Cretchley