Independence Day


It’s dense, this place. It seems to close itself
To all who will not listen. Forest grips
And lake lets go, but there’s no easy way
To fathom depths of ice-hard silence here.
The smile recedes, the tightened lips retain
The secret still. You can’t belong – and yet
Some want you to. Old Luther’s claim seems firm
But underneath conventicle is strong,
Byzantine gilded incense drifts. And still
The shaman’s healing, sauna-dark, persists.
The fierce reserve encloses, captures soul
And meets the other, mystified and mute.
And muffling snow emits its heat and light –
And guests who love you shiver at your might.

Rupert Moreton

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s