So touched
By sunlight
And it’s setting
In the west

That they might
Harbour cherubs
In soft folds
And angels blushing orange
Upon the gilded edge.

In vapour robes
Of salmon pinks,
Moist in cirrus’s
Spiritual clothes
And cumulus draped
Upon their bodies

Like light
And sky blue complexions
To make their face
And eye depth

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Dawn Of The Blood Red Moon

Summer mist collects
In pools beneath the trees,
Seeps and infiltrates
The copse,
Coats and clings
Like breath to the river bank,
Disappears things
To the cool substance
Of dreams.
The ephemeral magic
Of the unseen
Yet holds the scents
Of ripening crop
And the soil’s loam
And the must
Of summer grass
Sweetened and distilled
To perfume
Annotating the earthen land
Below the moon
Glowing waxy
And vast
And so low and close
And red with the blood
Of myths.
And for just a moment
Man’s potential
Drifts in the red possibility
Of the clouds
And the moon is a heart
And the mind is rich
In seeing,
And any question
Brought to the lips
Finds its home
In the instant
It manifests,
In satisfaction’s pale light
And the full lunar fact
Of wisdom’s beholding.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Despite The Tumult


Despite the tumult
Of the clouds,
The erratic moods,
The distractions
And the cauldron of emotions
Fitful and bubbling,
There dwells always the sun
And the blue sky,
Fresh as warmth upon your skin
And a summer morning’s in-breath,

Waiting, behind it all
For your homeward bound

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.