Poor Poet's Scroll

"No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, [6]
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 'his' word
She shook the world." - Tennyson, 'The Poet'

I may not shake the world, but I do believe in the power of words.

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17. The Gift

When  mother  nature paints the sea with the evening sunset

like a painter with a rainbow palette

ribbons of colour will unfurl across the skies,

rich purple like a royal’s cloak,

lilac, scarlet, amber.

She will nudge the golden eye into position,

opening up a celestial path unto heaven.

 

She will breathe sharp, salty air into your face,

weave it through your hair and fabric of your clothes,

leaving a lingering touch long after sunset gives way to night.

Salt will dance in the air

like blossoms blowing in the breeze.

Your nose will tickle with the briny tang

and you will taste the bitter granules on your tongue.

 

If I could, I would capture this evening,

compressing the wonder of it into a bottle.

Watch it layer up like twisted, rainbow sand.

When you opened it up,

you would experience the most priceless gift I can give you,

a gift from nature,

a gift from me.

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