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< Poems by Charles Jobson >


The door

The world stands firm.
Patches of yellow land
like a sandy oasis and flowing palm trees
stretching out and calling for water.

Who knows where land ends?
When tons of rubble come crashing
Down from the bare earth
can living creatures,
plants of spirit,
spring up and multiply?

A globe is a disc
waiting to blossom and spread.
Our earth is a reflection of something greater,
the arc of higher knowledge

spy in the shadows of blue
a figure quiet and pondering.
Nothing’s left to chance.


Poem Charles Jobson. For permission to re-use contact  godfrey@wordsout.co.uk.  Painting  Samuel Toussaint.