Under The Bridge
Fog from the river
gathers under the bridge,
dampening cardboard,
chilling marrow
and shrouding soul.
Moans rise
to a waning moon:
nightmare screams
shatter
an uncaring stillness.
Bundles of rags,
drawn to the dying fire,
mutter
querulous monologues
in alien tongues.
Bent figure,
urinating in icy water,
stumbles, splashes,
and is gone
without a ripple.
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
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