The Pilgrimage: Part 5 / Phillip Neal Tippin
For want of words
To write the line
Bounding beyond me
The bells of St Mary
Ford the river, toll
The gifting sound.
The little lane’s lithe quietude
You are like a pebble tossed midstream,
Passage, water over passed, more or less
Yet, as the source roles the weaving shore
Feeds the flow of our known, shaping stones.
When one wakes past changing
Wakes at last to a growing
That which is born to me
Is born to thee
By being born of thee.
The Poet’s rhymed lines
Their texture rising to a sign
Of nature in the brailled eye.
Go out into the neighborways
Compelled, compelling
Hoist the sap sodden section of
Fir so to foist upon the sod stack.
Sleep, futile, toil.
The mourning dew
Glimpses the Morn
The Maiden Voyage
Upon the shore
Flies to Him from sea
To hear the call
“Feed my sheep.”
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