A Last Request

Let me/it, at last, then, rise, buffeted by sound-waves.

A Pint Of Gluten-Free

I have/I will have written in the waves of echoed song.

A spring begets a stream becomes a river raising tides.

A gradual, rolling rumble from few spots on the horizon brings a chorus for the dawn to sail its orange sunlight o’er.

Hikari kawa.

The breeze feels like an echo of a cold too cold to bear, as the gull glides on its currents and the waves of winter light.

Each of us with tales ‘n layered lives to be disclosed…

I sit in soft, surrounded solitude.

I think (/realise).

Pied white ‘n dull-green ‘n shim’ring black, treasuring the trove you’ve gathered.

Itsumo to eien ni.

The fire of the dragon’s protest-flame marks only its self ‘n message.

The air’s electrically-lit between each of the eight trees – their roots breaking the grey and moss-green, late-night, cobbled surface.

Itsumo no keikai.

Only, really, time for teaching (worth it) others.