The Island

The fog thickened
over the island
like soup.

Was it still evening,
or had morning risen?
Silence can be an artful teacher,
but just now it leaves me lost.

Somewhere from the catalogue
of my dreams I've neatly filed
in moments of time and place
the hope to arrive,
somewhere,
like the crest of the Matterhorn,
or strands once strolled
along wind-swept seas who speak
in tongues of vanished lands.

Now, the dream's renewed,
and I, anxious to repair,
when this time, this chance will prove
to be the long awaited Bodhi,
or Nirvana
or Promised Land.

So many times the hope,
the dream-

And I, confused by this dimension
whereupon the surface lacks
a map, address or name,
yet utters the depths of my being,
echoing in the den of memory,
rippling in deep chasms of the heart.

Copywright 2009 Francis Don Daniels