Below, the heron rests his feet,
he waits a while with me,
lingering in the wading pool
with my countenance to see.
I feel the many pilgrims pass,
languid along the causeway.
Moon, sorrow and grief I sing
for man is etched in hues of grey.
Within, swallows shelter tiny hands,
they wait amongst the leaves,
through the fine Irish weather
that prompts the barley sheaves.
Otherwordly spirits rest,
they wait for summoning,
silent through generations
while I watch each new beginning.
But every time You visit me
eternity is worth its fallow.
When your weary eyes do fail
I’ll remain the waiting willow.

– Intuitive Ginger

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