sitting upon an old, stone ghat
I felt the flow of what was not
coracles once spun down this stream
like dervishes in a wistful dream
now the dream was cold and lonely
sing songs of the one and only
it doesn’t change a single thing
be that one a drone or a king
I’d followed the drums down into a trance
time was vacant from my every glance
and I’d lost track of which world I was riding
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on June 17, 2018.
