by Philip Brady
That was a magnificent evening he said
Addressing no star in particular
On its rotation round infinity.
If there was a better superlative
I would have used it. His cane tapped the wall
Guiding the river as it meandered
Through boulders, each on their own adventure.
That was a long time ago, a small gap
Of contemplation in the Pyrenees,
A thought discarded with September leaves,
A blind man speaking with Bible insight.
He traversed his trove of bardic recall,
And kept faith with the course of a river
That an ice age had once predetermined.
