Stowaways Poem by Anthony Dawson

A bright afternoon,

the day of sound,

end zone of feeling within love.

Your art is polished from dust to clay,

fired in the kiln,

paraded under blue ozone.



Waves wrecking that gnarled cliff,

eroding my state of induced haze


Cold Iceland wind and rose cheeks never wilted;

could I take the thought and bind every particle?

Strings of a heart quartet humble me.


I take you on this cold afternoon and have these nirvana thoughts;

numb cold afternoon;

The elements become stowaways.