Poem by Michael Shepherd
In the deepening dusk of forest glade,
in the mist of clouds rolling over the high hills,
in the sea-fog rolling in at turn of tide,
what feature of its form alerts us first
that it’s so present, now, and here?
That spiralled horn – why is it that we know
that’s where it should be seen,
that place upon our forehead we can feel ourselves?
The unicorn within us knows –
when attention spirals to a fine, fine point
and thought is stilled; that’s when
our single-pointed horn calls presence to its purest form,
its purest place, within ourself;
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