What a marvelous mosaic of stories we make.
You must look at the weave of us
And wonder at the artistry of Your work,
The way we intertwine and move among,
Perhaps never knowing.
Perhaps never touching,
But all our varying shades,
The balance of light and shadow in our fibers,
Make us such a perfect painting.
And maybe that is why we feel so ugly,
Zoomed in so closely as we are,
Microscopic. Seeing the speck of grayish blue,
And not the rolling sea beneath a storm.
Seeing the sickly slice of red,
And not the booming meadow of sunset.
Perhaps we threads would not feel so lonely,
So starkly different, so bent and tangled,
So lost within the maze,
If, rather than solitary, twisting twine,
We saw the tapestry.
– s. Clark
Words settled on him like a mist
He soaked them through his skin
Inhaled them deep into his lungs
And gathered them within
He breathed them back into the world
All swirling, colored smoke
Stained with the ink etched on his soul,
He painted when he spoke.
– s. Clark
In massive ranks they form upon the sand
The Romans, each behind his golden shield
In perfect lines, in majesty of war,
They march in eager order for the field
And on the far side of the silver beach,
Emerging from the rocks as insects freed,
The Britons, in a mass of swarming swords,
That fly to death in reckless warrior’s need.
For death it is, and at the battle’s front
The soldiers with their gleaming armor press
To run through their aggressive enemy.
The bold blood stains the fur upon the chest
Of each barbarian lord who falls before
The teaming onslaught, groaning at his fall,
While over lifeless forms one Briton flies
To face his foe, the largest of them all.
And each wears on his wrist a broken chain
To say he will be free at any cost,
Yet, still, two ragged natives turn their backs
In fear, for they can see the battle lost.
The brightly colored robes of roman guard
Stand yet unstained by wounds to make blood flow
And on the shoreline of the violent sands
Are ships neatly aligning in a row.
Yet while the Romans fall upon their prey,
While, pierced by spears, the Britons by and by
Submit to death, the land stands looking on.
The silent stones, the peaceful sea, the sky.
– s. Clark