Poetry

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Our Picnic in the Fire

Old ‘Good King Wenceslas’ played
(It’s ironic, I have found.)
while my Lover spread out for us
our blanket upon the ground.

I’ve not seen a table spread
in castles that has compared
to the one in summer’s garden
that He lovingly prepared.

He kissed me on my forehead.
I leaned as closely as I could.
I asked Him to never leave me.
He promised He never would.

He picked me a dew-kissed Rose
and fed me with His gentle hand --
He and I and our cool blanket
on dog days of summer sand.
© Joyce Pool

Mark 9:49 Everyone will be salted with fire.

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