Solemn Oaks In A Barren Land.

A Celtic knot empowers his wrist
His hair hands in loosened braids
He’d call himself a Bard
But they’d have him branded as insane.

His eyes conceal a fountain
Of wisdoms, ancient, untold.
His eyes conceal a knowing
That remain though he grows old.

His skin as the wind
Changes in contrast to expectation
Sometimes he retains the silver pale of the moon,
The next day he glows in Apollian radiance.

Torn chords cling tight the hip
Worn through seams beg to be sewn.
As he strides headstrong
Into the un-known.

His chests grows tighter day by day
He seeks a rest, another way
To see is day is done.

We amongst the faithless stand
As solemn oaks in a barren land.

poem by David Lacey
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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