Without sight of it, dare I call this place;
so sweet an avenue of surrender?
And dare you or I
we must see to remember
this pleasant track we meander?
We need no sight to light our way,
Only touch and taste and scent,
And dare I call it ‘sense’,
That leads us where next to turn?
It is rather more insanity…
I follow you, you follow me,
With the soft caress of summer’s grass
Lapping at our backs…
Corn has ears, I hear, but it wavers far from here,
And so we may whisper freely
In our forever-field of barley.
And whisper we shall, but less with words,
only one another…
Eyes closed, we breathe,
I feel, you taste…whilst only the sun is watching and we
bestow a name upon our sacred place.
I dare Heaven to say
This isn’t Holy Hell…
For here only lies greed and temptation,
Fruit and feasting,
fire and satiation,
and if this is penance,
then I admit my crimes…
for here among the wondrous scent of wildflowers,
Witnessed by gossiping waters,
and judged by hawthorn and vines,
I will be anything but forgiven.