A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

MILLSTREAM MIDNIGHT

This body,
A mere token of my presence,
As the wind whispers its advance,
A secret splash,
Another presence
In the cold, black,  
Reflective calm
Of the wide mill stream,
Before me,
Now retired from industry, 
Resting in its own nature,
As am I,
In this moment,
Seeing,
Without looking,
Hearing,
Without listening,
Being,
Without trying,
As the trees dissolve
Their luminous,
Silver laced contour,
With the dark sky,
Unbothered by the clouds,
Yielding to the breeze,
The stream flows on,
Silently,
Only the reflection
Does not move,
But shimmers,
Pierced, occasionally,
With the silhouette
Of a drifting duck,
Or moorhen,
Whose wild cackles
I pretend not
To understand.
The lights softly glowing
Behind drawn curtains,
In a mansion,
Dwarfed,
By the nature
It gazes upon.
The tall poplar spires,
Hushing sentinels
Against a streaking
Orange hem.
An invisible midnight,
Has come,
And gone,
Even the church bell,
Missed its passing.
I slip back,
Into my rags,
My role,
And my car,
With only the mud
On my shoe,
To remind me
Of fairy tales.
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