Description
‘Under tickling mist of a morning drizzle,
clouds a high pearlescent ceiling
across the lapping silver water,
Hope rose like a looming cliff
Drops began to fall with a soft pitter-patter,
rippling the surface of the river;
Gazing down into the black, slow-moving depths,
where drifted fragments of a broken moon,
branches of tress brush my face with blossom
A soft agitation of wings caresses my cheek;
the air breathing from the well-nigh spring sky,
bore a voice which whispered…
I will lift you on the wings of Hope’
VaL Smit ©
