Under an opal moon,
The music of a guitar,
A bowl of oranges, and
The soft stillness
Of the garden.
In the shadows
The old alchemist
Turns leaden thoughts
Into drops of gold,
And your disappearance
Becomes a harbour
For silent ships
And calm thoughts,
Of long journeys
Through the seas
Of the mind, in
A white ship, steered
By the stars.
Your hair
Blowing in the wind.
– Stephen Threlkeld
