These things -- I do not cease to love:

A Child at twilight chases
white dove into jasmine tree;

As I walk -- home upward
from the timeless town
by the deep blue light,
the clouds languidly wink
the full yellow moon;

My two old friends, the bright planets,
guard the groaning gate
by which the ancient timber holds flowers,
inside the garden where branches and creepers
abundantly frame tiny orchids
and the old stone fountain-seen through blue darkness;

The chapel in the garden valley
where wine from skin washes fresh bread down,
where fire on low altar is sparingly fed
as I sit on stone floor atop hand-woven wool.

These things I do not cease to love,
these -- and my own hunger for these things.


© Carlton Godbold 1987

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