There is no memory,
To remember,
The brooding heart of earth.
Slapping at the breast of
Mountain, sea and stone.
Forgive me for forgetting,
The laughing mouth of life.
Recklessly rejecting,
The stubborn frown of time.
Stained from wounds,
War and weariness.
Then waking from
This crafty trance,
Like butterflies,
We dive and dance,
The colour of sun,
In the arc of the moon.
There is no calendar to record,
This delicate ballet,
Or any other day.           © Will Barton 2009

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