Just a poem

Passed Lives

Could I have been the hermit on a Celtic coast,

the writer in her hut, the poet praying at the well.

A solitary saint?

The lighthouse keeper, high, alone and lofty on some rocky shore.

The singer with a voice pure and lasting, effortless and sure.

The dancer with just music flowing in my veins.

The player of the tunes with much feeling in the strains.

The tennis player, swift, precise and pure, a legend in the game.

The true artist; seeing all and then setting free the sight.

The whitest, wildest pony roaming wide and free.

The sensual, sultry cat, somewhat pampered, fed and warm.

The bird that always flies alone, glides, swoops

and  nests where peace lies in a beauty

which the taint of Man has yet to kill.

 

Cait O’Connor