Tales of a Poor Poge by Richard Palmer - HTML preview

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A CHILD

I see before me a child
And know that I have forgotten

The truth she knows.
One with Life, the free expression

Of beauty exploring her world.

Attuned to the Root from which

Our being sprung.
A Root never empty
Whose truth in her is again begun.

 

 

MONTY

Monty was the summer wind

Smiling softly on my soul.

A beauty of the Earth who

Touched my days and dreams.

Monty was woman searching

For an unattainable paradise.