The Agonist Journal

St. Bride

On the heights of English hills, gentle like
The people there, but marked with hidden depths,
We sit and watch the weather turn from grey
To blue, in winter’s garden at the spring,
That rings with birdsong and with mating calls.

As we communicate within ourselves,
We sit and watch the sun that crawls across
The sky, a child with futures in its eyes,
Reflecting us, who look at fading time,
And try to reconcile our lives inside.