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