Is there momentum
In the telling?
Gradually building,
Increasing?
Like a snowball
Rolling downhill?
Is there danger
In the sounding?
Gradually echoing,
Resounding?
‘Til the avalanche
Deadly, descends?
Is there compassion
In the lancing,
Gradually easing,
Releasing?
‘Til the fever
Finally retreats?
Is there living
After dying?
Gradually rising?
Reviving?
Like awakening
From anaesthetic sleep?
Poetry Croft 