All Saint`s Day
A bleached evening, grey
my memory follows me into the cold
the ice records my steps, and peeks
at my afraid progress.
I lay in humility on the damp earth
a priest unable to bear the face of God,
the trees make a lot of noise, the feel as
important as a kestrel in balance with the sky
my face is a forgotten piece of washing on a line
as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind.
Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been
turned into foulness, gold and silver behind glass.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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