K Morris Poet
May 29
Sometimes I think
On permanent things:
The birds that sing,
The grand old churches
And the trees.
Then the breeze,
Mingling with the rain
Shows what will remain.
When you and me
Are as the tree.
Modern Druid ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ...
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