by Anita Moor
Across the ocean's sapphire floor, with sail
Of linen woven from the flaxen fields,
Following the track of knights who sought the grail
And bore the Virgin's colours on their shields,
The monks of holy Brandon steered their way.
Wondering they saw an island lay before them
That no chart knew; so, on that summer day,
They landed where the breath of heaven bore them.
"The paradise of birds" was the strange name
The isle was called. No taint of human grief
Defiled the air. They strayed until they came
To a green tree, sun-lit on stem and leaf.
White spirit-birds in every bough sang clear;
Bird-spirits filled the isle both far and near.
Saturday, March 11, 2023
White Spirit-Birds in Every Bough Sang Clear
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