The Golden Touch
T Tom Billsborough
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Hovering alchemists
With a feathery touch
By accident
Creating new life
In their constant search
For the elements to produce
Their pure liquid gold.
Ringing blue bells
On the bugloss spires
Consuming the silence
As are the faint rising
anthems of distant choirs
Which practise
Seeking the same powers
Of re-creation
In the tall cathedral
Across this field of meadow flowers.
Bu şiiri puanla
Henüz puan verilmemiş