Brother Rumi. ( New Version).

A dry twig splintering,
Too weak to carry the weight
Of birdsong.

The woodlands of my youth
Have all decayed and perished,
Buried under stone and tarmac.

I sit by the open window
Observing the first light of morning
Revealing the garden.

The prospect gives me solace,
But my neighbour would pave it over.-
I reverently open my book of Sufi verse.

Rumi
I want to heal this old hurt world,
Bind up her wounds with love,
Reveal her power, her sanctity.
But folk seem blind to natural beauty,
They seem to crave concrete and glass,
Not a dazzle of flowers in a meadow.

I sit by the open window
Observing my tidy garden
And I wonder if I should leave it to grow wild;
Let moss spread over the pathways,
The trees blot out the sky.

Whatever turns out to be best
My neighbour is sure to grumble
And yet
All things in time shall be well,
All manner of things shall be well,
But the rose that I picked this morning
Has now turned brown and brittle,

Perhaps I should not have picked it,
Just simply let it be.

And so I ask once more
This imperfectly worded question,

Brother Rumi
Is it possible to heal this world with love,
Replace the artificial with Dame Nature`s vibrant beauty ?

"Try it" the old sage whispered.
"Try it and see".


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 4th. - 5th. - 6th.- 7th. - 8th. - 10th. 2015. - July 24th. 2015.

This visionary poem was created using the free association of ideas and images.