23 April 2022
With only a gentle stroke,
the personal becomes the universal;
a threadbare zoetrope in a child’s room,
spinning still
even when the children are grown and gone,
pilgrimaged to the womb
or to the ash or the smoke.
And when we can again see
through the darkly lighted night
or the forest, with tall brilliant trees,
or into the half lighted sky, with little blots of bright Hope
being birthed and dying in each passing moment;
And when we can again hear
over the sound of bombs and screams
or can notice the whispered pleas of a muse
long hidden behind a filmy screen;
And when we can again find
the words which allude us so,
circled in passing glances
or planned advances;
Then,
then
a new era, with the same dedicated precision, will dawn.
Oh! lovely Brigit, most Beautiful of them all,
Where did you go these many long years?
Featured in StartleBloom Literary Review