We were doers, we were dreamers

What if one day we found the scales

To have fallen from our eyes?

And thus a river were a sonnet,

And a meadow something strange?

A field of purple heather like

A turning of the page?

A blade of grass a sword well wrought -

A slice of contemplation?

What if the swell of the world were held within a breath,

And the breath given out in love?

And we were no longer dreaming men with empty heads,

But doers of such dreams? Doers of our love?