The quality of beauty is not strange.
Tugged by the gentle reins of heaven.
It comes upon the landscape unarranged,
as though every part seeks safe haven.
It catches the senses unaware,
with a sight, a sound, a smell... a dare.
It comes upon the soul softly,
and not in the headlights' glare.
Its essence is its harmony,
with all that's gone before.
It is couched in the beholder,
to make mere pleasure more.
To make young again the older,
like memories on the shoulder,
Of a life well lived.
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2007 © Ronald W. Hull