New Poem by Todd Swift

Destination Spa In Ireland

Slyly misdirected in Monart -
lost artifice of sun & glass;
white-robed April spa-goers
style themselves for July now.

Sun's parish, milk without end.
Taking Easter morning they rise
make an occasion of tea & toast.
No explanation at noon is needed

for lying down among strangers.
Worship light blindly as it comes.
Stone bridge, pond birds, a cascade –
paid for with funds bought for a lie.

Bare-faced white facade turns true
when your blue sky breaks through.

April 2011

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