The Golden Touch Poem by Tom Billsborough
The Golden Touch
Hovering alchemists
With a feathery touch
By accident
Creating new life
In their constant search
For the elements to produce
Their pure liquid gold.
Ringing blue bells
On the bugloss spires
Consuming the silence
As are the faint rising
anthems of distant choirs
Which practise
Seeking the same powers
Of re-creation
In the tall cathedral
Across this field of meadow flowers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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6/11/2024 5:46:54 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Unbeknownst to most of us, we all create every day. Whether soaring cathedrals or a single spoken word
That's a wise comment, Kelly. Actually my stomach is creating at the moment, sort of a rumbling noise. Maybe I'd better have some breakfast soon! nd my new pet crocodile needs feeding. Now which of my neighbours is the peskiest? Tom