To Dwell Amid These Woven Words Poem by Paddy J. P. Harris

The world is cold, just like the wind that blows
Laden with icy rain from cruellest north,
That strikes the trees and hills, yet still it flows
Until no creature dares to venture forth.
So why not dwell amid these woven words?
Where stars are shining with a constant light,
And on the boughs of twisted trees are birds
That softly sing through dream heavy nights.
And in the morn we’ll drink the silver dew
That falls from leaves to fill our golden bowls.
We’ll roam through land reforged anew
With mingled memory and thought made whole.
For here there shall be glory in our toil,
And then, in peace, we’ll lie upon the soil.