poetry

Lines written in a garden chair

the Schmetterlings
are unearthly things
with lacy wings
of white
It sometimes seems
they could be dreams
left over
from the night.

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Harbouring

those islands of my memory
upon whose cliffs I wandered
without care for where
the paths would lead
nor on the future pondered
’tis there I sail when dreaming
upon seas wild or calm
from the continents
of daily woes
and in them find the balm
that only reverie of times
succumbed then to the deep
can soothe my mind
come the last chimes
in harbour’s safety sleep