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.