Love Poem by Clay Dubberly

A mystical field;
Bedight, benign,
Rimmed with golden roses;
Surreal, divine,

Where farmers farm,
And hunters harm
Blameless beasts;

And where unleavened priests
See no reason, (and have no care)
To share their hollowed feast;

In this field (this forlorn field) ,
Where children sing, skip, and prance
There are those that pay the cost
For the people who have lost the meaning of the word, Romance

There lies a group-an exception of few-
Who have fought and died, journeyed and flew,
For this idea;
And they've salvaged-in concrete, and tombs, lined with gold-
This term-this idea; this concept of old.

This name we call 'Love'
Still exists, though locked away, by an angel throng;
Hidden by the symphony of a sparrow's song,

And-though it is rare; rumored to be ordained by God,
It may still be found, in a child's cry;
A brute's ballade,
Or a lover's eye.