Sunday, 5 April 2015

Poem 3 for National Poetry Writing Month

Willen Lake North


The first walk back and I begin to understand

the instincts of homing pigeons.

Magnetic fields and ley lines

seem to lead nowhere else but here.

It is the going away that sharpens the eye

for familiar scenes,

makes dull edges keen,

each footfall meant to be,

echoes of heart beats

long since silent.

I sit on a bench of memory

taking in the familiar sweep down to water

rippled by a biting breeze,

find that perfection is discovered

when the seeking stops.


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