Orphans, Exiles and Disowned Rebels

There are signs of them everywhere

showing up in the wild looking pair of beautiful metal wings

set up on the shoreline in fae colours of dark moss green

and the deepest lake of blue

inviting us to step inside their breadth

and become earth angels.

Stumbled upon at the crossroad of here and now

a pair of worn leather Doc Marten boots

their peacock hue flashing in the late afternoon light

tied to the post of a broken wire fence.

Traces are found in dew soaked grass

cradling a red topped toadstool

that wasn’t there the day before.

Their voices are in the wind, nature’s warriors,

reminding me, that I am never alone.

The fall mists are starting to appear in Stanley Park (Vancouver, B.C.).

The title for this poem was inspired by words found in a horoscope column from a local community newspaper written for Taurus.