With the pressure of nimble fingers,
And yet so much of a sound that,
We know an owl cannot make,
Like forgotten froglets sitting patiently,
While the crocodile slithers through the water,
Forming blades of uplift ever so gently,
Silent with motion and devotion to intent,
With a fling of the eye with a throw of the mind,
Now portioned in time falling over the kind,
Light onward and walk slowly downhill,
Become vectors and ghosts of thorn bushes,
Kiln of soulcraft fire your stoked hearth well,
Break the mental spell of self-taught fallacy,
Without cruelty to the beast.
Rowan Blair Colver
And yet so much of a sound that,
We know an owl cannot make,
Like forgotten froglets sitting patiently,
While the crocodile slithers through the water,
Forming blades of uplift ever so gently,
Silent with motion and devotion to intent,
With a fling of the eye with a throw of the mind,
Now portioned in time falling over the kind,
Light onward and walk slowly downhill,
Become vectors and ghosts of thorn bushes,
Kiln of soulcraft fire your stoked hearth well,
Break the mental spell of self-taught fallacy,
Without cruelty to the beast.
Rowan Blair Colver
Read the rest of the Suddenly Stars poetry collection.
