Theme: Hope

Forty-Day Fast

(a poem for these times)

Like these great clouds that gravely fly, never
A draw of breath, but fly on; so the days
In the wilderness over the earth, now choked
By the white light of a desert noon, now

Almost still in the black midnight; but still
The body of man sprouted like cactus,
Sap fixed interminably - but living,
Emerging to make a world botanic!

The Son of Man - no totem in dead sand;
But blood that curled and coiled round no rhythms:
The desert had severed these; but fired
By one pole which was to make deserts bloom!

Then gravely the clouds gathered for the storm:
The white desert for the forty-first day.


More By  :  R. D. Ashby

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