Page 9 - DAVID ROOMY MysteriuMBellE

to nestle this unsettled land; from birds to fishes it passes hand, where unworldly depths and sky meet each day, plant, and each retreat.
I haven’t laughed like this again or sung sweet heaven’s songs, a din to my very self. This eve I lay
on flats, the chilly lake at bay.
I’ll give them back, as all before
have wrested a moment, can wrest no more. In a glance, I recognize the call
to burn again the flotsam and all,
as once upon another shore,
the day my lyre was born and more, this speckled star of mine began
and I to loving as I can.
The North Sea near Blakeney
This poem is one of many postscripts on Greece written in North America. It is from a dream on the eve of the Gulf War. Months before, I had anxiously watched the war’s preparation while I was in Greece and the Mediterranean.
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