The white dove

Summer leaves.
Autumn comes.
The dry leaves
on the ground are scattered
by the wind, the hot dry wind.
Tears drop.
Drip down to the corner of my
lip. Clowns cry when the circus passes by
your town.
The fruits of loneliness are bitter and dry.
The years of aloneness drag on by.
The agonising passing of each moment in exile from another person,
leaves one bereft of joy and needing so much to be loved.
By someone, anyone with a genuine heart.
The world needs so much a someone with a genuine love.
The coming down of the spirit like a pure white dove.
Anointing him. Resting on him. Indwelling in him.
Taking away the vestments, if any, of sin.