Flowing

It flowed across the stony path
down the hill across rain jewelled grass.
Through trees standing strong and tall
with boughs open to the waiting sky,
where resplendent in their diverse nests
the birds lay silent, in blissful rest.

It flowed down valleys wide
through pastures where the herds reside.
Seeped through farms and buildings too,
through tractors. fences. rivers, brooks;
it seeped through me and seeped through you
it flowed in each and every place I knew.

It flowed up the hill to end of green
to sliding slopes strewn with scree,
and reached the peak of jagged rocks
against a sky of drifting insubstantial clouds.
It flowed through the air I breath
the air we share both you and me.

It flowed upwards on the wind
it flowed until the world's very end,
and reaching space it sped,
to the farthest stars that shone and bowed,
as it flowed on past the heaven's crowd.

It flowed to the very edge of space
and with a leap of undoubting faith,
it joined with that which Is,
from which flows all time,
all worlds gross, subtle and sublime.
And on that small and stony path
was found more; much more,
than any mortal mind could ask.

by David Taylor

Comments (2)

Would like to know the answer to what 'it' is too David. Could be any manner of things. Please put us out of our misery! ! ! ! Lovely poem anyway, and a treasure to find and read. love and hugs Ernestine XXX
To paraphrase Bill Clinton, 'It depends on what the meaning of is, is.' To be, what exactly is 'it'? Search and Ye shall find. s