What is it?

Well, it starts as a poem

What is it,That lies beyond,The waters of,A lily pond.

What is it,I cannot see?Waiting there,In store for me.

What is it,I do not hear?The sound beyond,The shouting weir?

What is it,I will not smell,The fragrance behind,A rose’s spell?

What is it,I shall not feel?The silk beneath,A wooden wheel.

What is it,I may not taste?A cake wound up,In golden lace?

What is it,The point you ask?It’s as the point,Of shattered glass.

Elinor Tuffnell

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