The Old Pan

years are walls that hold
me dreaming of Jericho

you are the spring in the step
rebounding beneath my feet,

aftershocks of love aftershocks of loss
I fall to pieces but my walls hold intact

you are the true day to my false dawn
the young daughter of an Indian summer,

under walls of years that hold me still
dreaming in chains of ancient Jericho

I cut a reed and make a penny whistle
purse my bitten lips & blow your name.


John G.Hall(C)2005