The High Perch
This calmness has a loveliness, though not
Extreme as passion’s face in pain called bliss.
Serenity has settled on the plot
Of soil that used to thrive with thrills amiss
But now is as a sacred garden, walled.
A steadiness (caressing, cuddling) fills
The space that once by spasms was enthralled.
Crevasse and mountain are replaced by hills
Which blossom in the clothes of clover, white,
Yes, mild like lace on velvet stitched with stars.
Instead of eagle gripping, we have flight.
We stretch fawn feathers free from threat of scars.
..The pinions, flutter in to roost, pale dove
….With dove, upon the budding limb of love.
