Saturday, August 06, 2005

The Peace of Imogen Crest

A Persian rug,
a fireside,
rains sifts down outside,
making the green brighter,
the water is still,
a mirror for the soul.

The light is soft,
a candle flame,
pine cones gather on
the hearth stone,
a book is open
with ancient leaves.

A bowl of flowers,
the tick of hours -
never noticed here -
as they drift in
silent space.

The old stone walls,
the sheltering halls,
the absence of calls,
the noon of wars,
it's perfect here,
with spirit near -

Yours, - most
- Imogen Crest.

copyright Monika Roleff 2005.


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