Oct 19, 2021
Imagined Origins Nothing between us, so near I hear your skin whisper What you could never tell Of the longing that called us. How through the branches On to the clay beneath the oak, A lace of light came down To wait and watch each day, And the secrecy of the breeze, Dying down over the shiver In the earth, hovering there To blend its voice to breath, How, even then, the rain Through the brow of grasses Could foreshadow tears And the trickle of water change, Or the fright of crows from trees At dusk into the empty paleness, This rush of black words today Searching for you on the white page.
John O’Donohue
