The sunrise is not yet
though the night is gone,
the dark passed and spent
resurrecting memories...
primrose, vetch and willow herb
inside the tomb, among the midnight
dead
She has a craving for fruit
these mornings, swollen with oxygen
the air thin and cold
but she is afraid of oranges
this sloe-eyed girl
pulled down
by the weightlessness of chattels
From the morning-room window
the scene outside
looks fragile and deaf
but she taught me to smile again –
something I had forgotten
as I reach for her hand
wanting to hold it
but there are spaces here,
tender lacunae we cannot fold away
(dark sliding melodies laden with noise,
and beautifully spoken female voices
broken love songs, hand-sewn garments
gingham and faded serge)
while in the soot-stained corner
I crouch beside the stove
and worry like a rosary
the small dark beads of her name...
He watches her graceful movements
the girl, whose whole soul
is in her eyes and her heart
in the dance, of which she is the lure
to ten thousand mysteries
that vibrate to his own
I have crossed every river of desire
and felt all pain -
and the grey cloud cat
flicks out its lightning tongue
to lap the last of the creamy moonlight
from the great blue bowl of the sky...
Phoebe
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
~Pamela 
Blessings to you with all your writing!
