When first I grasp my pen I think of you,
That golden haloed image of my eyes
Which cleaves all shadow and can so break through
The blot black mantle of a moonless sky.
You are yet here and ever on my mind
As if with you all happiness does dwell,
The rarest gift to hail from heaven kind;
Sweet smile of light to make the spirit swell.
So here your helot sits compelled to write
And in so doing strives to hold you near,
Where writing so is clear a fancied flight
Writ in a dream, convinced these words endear.
Yet should you ask what does this wordsmith mean?
Look in your glass, you are a poets dream.
©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.