I’ve got a good taste
in my mouth
it’s gone to my mind
must be the wine,
sure feels fine.
Montana Benmorven.
It drowns the self
grey clay falls away
soul entombed within,
now free to leave.
I look, searchingly
as I find, compellingly
I must go back.
The winds still
calling me.
And I am gone.
Copyright © Terence George Craddock
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem