-Wrapped in the swaddling cloth of innocence-
Stultified in this absurdity,
caught in the ragged ends of this storm,
branches bedraggled and naked,
the leaves tattered and torn,
scattered upon the walkway of this love.
Seated upon the old bench,
beneath the corpulent trees,
resting, I find a kind of ease,
some sinew of peace, a remnant of holiness,
left over from the fire in that breeze.
The sun, ekes its weary way,
making skeletons upon the ground,
as they cross our path in the dead of that sound.
Turn your face my love,
that I may not see the tears,
the constancy of all those faltering years,
the running game,
torn from the pages of your book,
read a thousand times in the darkness,
the silence of the shadows moving in time,
to the passage of our sun.
Come, sit a while, hold my hand,
watch the moonlight bathe our world
in her silver balm,
the restive calm of gentle limbs,
wrapped in the swaddling cloth of innocence.
© Richard Michael Parker 2012
