Where Truth Lives

The winter storm threatens. Odd dark clouds lead the way.
A walk takes you past houses with wood fires burning,
smoke rising low in the sky, held down by the pressure
of the approaching snow.

A wiser man would find his way home. But then,
you have never felt quite wise, just an observer
who at times will travel too far, lean too far over
to capture and image

or an emotion, the truth behind what you are seeing.
They are rarely the same thing, the truth and the seen.
It takes time and patience to tell one from the other
and patience is not valued

in the world we live in. The world of now and noise
and the forgetting, but not forgiving of sins.
We see the noise and miss the whispers
where truth lives.

About this poem

This was NOT the poem I set out to write. But there you go – the muse is a sneaky wench.

The picture was taken down the road from me during one of my walks.

Tom