The sound of ancient, old with age
that resonates with sight, touch and smell.
The mystery of what lived before,
good or bad that history could not change.
The thrill of some thing new,
never having been seen by human eyes
for hundreds if not thousands of years before
by them we knew nothing about again until.
With one sweep of the brush
its like Haley's comet the build up of excitement
the inward hope that each time it comes
some thing known will be shown to be different.
People come, people go what they leave behind
their spirit unseen,
deeply felt it is shown by them
through archeology what they made, the warmth
of it that which was found by they
in the palm of your hands.

by James McLain

Comments (1)

I liked this poem.... well done.... waiting for more from you...