Moors Of White

Picture:  Winter Day in Sorup Hegn by Peder Mork Mønsted

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Moors of white,

The hand that feeds,

The mouth that bites.

Recognition with no thought

Of love unbound, therefore uncaught.

Mix and match, pick and choose,

Welcome to the buffet of life,

All that was

Heretofore invisible

Is now, and only now, at your feet,

Within hand’s reach,

Tip-o’-the-tongue-ready to eat.

Even fools have something to teach,

If one’s sense is keen

And the right spells are spoken.

What sort of wizardry do I see

Now

That the sky has broken?

I see no sights

But

Moors of white.

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Herons

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In order to fully appreciate this poem, pronounce the “h” as if it was in front of the “w” in the word “white”, e.g “h-wite”.

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