Sunday, December 02, 2007


Not a queue
But a line, waiting
Waiting for eternity to greet them with a kiss and a
And a silence unusually rich with purpose.

The taste of bread, elastic on the tongue.
The tang of wine.
The touch of something deep;
Living off the harvest of another time.

A feather-breath of meaning,
Melting the hard edges of the heart,
Misting the awkward shapes of our clumsy lives with the finest beads of condensation;
In which the light of life
delights to play.

(c) A Mc N


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