My Poetry

The Silent Mystics’ Cry

Upon the crown the circle lies alert
while cloaks of fog are laid upon the face
as standing stones surround the sacred place
in silence with a gaze in time, inert.
Beneath the stars the stoic pickets spin,
an ageless course upon the mighty tor.
In pensive thought imagination soars
and love for grass and bough, the growing kin.
In riddles does the circle ever turn
these mystics of the shaded, rolling knolls.
In worship of the Maker sing the stones,
for open skies and stars the boulders yearn
Upon the crown the singers lie,
these mystics raise their silent cry.


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