I can ghost
through every inch
of your landscape,
so powerfully resonant,
memory is.
At first light,
I read
your garden poem
and waterfalling images
breathed mist in arid mind.
Your wind-rocked chair nodded,
urging forward
and I heard - come.
Unshutter mind.
Font-dip
of fingertips breaks the skin
of brittle floes
that blaze blade-bright
hustles the suffering eye
down island-whorls –
your table longs,
dear,
to transform.
Another splice.
I point nose to fading light,
trip over dark roofline,
soft, nursery of sky
so rudely underlined,
barbed thrust of jousting limbs
yew leaves, still clinging,
bird feeder in negative.
Cutting floor.
I want to drift about,
record,
indulge in dreamy scenarios
but I have bores to buttonhole,
obligations to perform.
My work wont
wait.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
